Hex: A Ruby Murphy Mystery

by Maggie Estep

  “Would you like a towel?” she asks as I veer toward the couch.

  I realize I look and smell like a wet dog. “Yeah, thanks, where’s the bathroom?”

  “Just there.” She indicates a door to the right. “But the towels are in here.” She floats over to a place in the wall and presses her palm against one part of it, causing a door to pop open, revealing shelves of perfectly folded fluffy white towels. She hands me two and I retreat to the bathroom.

  There’s nothing in it but an elegant mauve toilet, a minimal sink, and a discreet showerhead sprouting from the far corner of the ceiling. The floor is made of tiny white tiles. Apparently, the entire room is one big shower stall. There are no doodads or gewgaws. It’s all functional and elegant. Like Ariel herself.

  I rub myself dry then check the towels to see if I’ve stained them. They’re a little grayish but nothing drastic. I come out of the bathroom, hand Ariel my used towels, and watch her slip them into yet another magical door in one of the walls.

  She indicates the severe white couch. I sit down. Nervously spine erect.

  “Can I get you a drink?” she asks.

  “I don’t drink, thanks.”

  “I meant water. Or juice. Or coffee. Or tea. I have several kinds of tea,” she says, anxiously flitting over to the open kitchen area where various chrome appliances gleam. “I have Earl Grey, of course. Or chamomile, if you’d like something herbal. I have ginger too. Or peppermint. Oh, and I have gunpowder tea also.”

  “Water would be fine, thanks,” I say.

  “Sparkling or flat?”

  “Flat is good.”

  She brings me water then immediately flits off again and comes back with a photograph. “That’s Frank,” she says.

  The photo is of a square-jawed blond guy. High cheekbones, crew cut, broad shoulders. He’s staring into the camera like he’s trying to shatter it. Central casting’s version of a handsome thug.

  “Huh,” I say.

  “He’s a good-looking man,” Ariel says.

  I shrug noncommittally I’d have expected her taste to run to a more refined stick-up-the-ass, overbred kind of guy. “What’s he do for a living?” I venture.

  “Oh,” she makes a gesture of despair, “he’s a sort of handicapper.”

  “A who?”

  “He handicaps horse races.”

  “Oh yeah?” I brighten. I love horses, and have, on occasional visits to the racetrack, done pretty well for myself in the gambling department. My little system of looking at the horses before the race and trying to gauge their moods has, to other people’s astonishment, yielded good results.

  “I was raised to stand by my man, no matter what,” Ariel says now, for no apparent reason.

  “Ah,” I say.

  “I mentioned to you that my mother lived with a hex on her head.”

  “You did say something about a hex.”

  “My grandmother hexed her. Her own daughter. My grandmother didn’t approve of my father. He was rich. Handsome. But my grandmother mistrusted him. ‘Faccia de miseria’, she told my mother. My father had the face of misery. My grandmother swore he’d make my mother unhappy. Which he did. And yet, my mother stressed to me the importance of loyalty. Though my father was seldom at home and was cold when he was there, my mother said only kind things about him. When she grew ill and began wasting away, he rarely came to check on her, but still she didn’t say an unkind word.” Ariel is staring ahead, looking like an elegant blond zombie.

  “My mother died when I was twelve. For a few months I was sent to live with my grandmother in Sicily. She tried to shape me into a proper Italian girl. Taught me to cook and, in particular, to grow things. Plants. Flowers.” Ariel motions at the extravagant horticultural display around us. “Then she died too. My father sent for me. I was brought back to Westchester County and raised by a succession of governesses. My father was always a distant figure.”

  I’m starting to get the feeling Ariel needs a shrink more than she needs an investigator. I squirm in my seat a little, uncomfortable with these confidences from someone I barely know.

  Ariel suddenly picks up the photo of Frank from the glass table she’d put it on. She looks at the photo wistfully.

  “I’ve been with Frank close to ten months now. I love him. I don’t want to say disparaging things about him. But, well, I’m afraid his employment isn’t strictly on the up and up. When we first met, he told me he was a racing handicapper. Said he contributed regularly to various racing magazines. He does know a great deal about horse racing. But I’ve scoured the various racing forms for his byline and haven’t found it. Still, that isn’t what bothers me, Ruby.”

  Ariel leans closer, puts her hand on my forearm. She smells delicate and rosy.

  “What I can’t abide isn’t even that I think he’s running around on me,” she says, “it’s the lying about it. I’d like to just know the truth. And he isn’t going to level with me.” She sighs and looks on the verge of tears again, then gathers herself and hands me a sheet of paper.

  “Here is his information. Date of birth. Full name. Cell phone number.”

  “You have an address? Where am I supposed to find him?”

  She hangs her head. “I don’t know it,” she admits. “He lives in Midtown but I’ve never been to his place.”

  Clearly this guy is the catch of the century.

  “He’s supposed to come by tomorrow evening. He tends to simply appear when it suits him, but I would guess it would be around nine. I would like it if you could be nearby. Do you have a cell phone?” she asks.

  “No, I don’t,” I say, refraining from going on my Luddite’s anti-cell-phone rant.

  “It’s fine. I’ve got extra phones,” Ariel says, and I immediately picture yet another cleverly disguised closet, this one chock-full of electronic gizmos. “I’ll give you a phone and we’ll install you in a room here in the Chelsea. When Frank comes, I’ll make some excuse and ask him to leave without spending the night. You can follow him from here.”

  She pauses and thinks for a moment.

  “I want you to know I really appreciate this, Ruby. I didn’t want to go to a formal detective agency. That would make me uncomfortable. I had planned on simply ignoring the situation. But when I met you, I knew you could help. I don’t like having troubles. It interferes with my work, which is quite important to me.”

  “Oh?” I picture her in some sort of high-tech lab, endeavoring to uncombine Recombinant DNA.

  “I’m a flower designer. Weddings, funerals, and intermittent points in people’s lives. I brighten these occasions with flowers. Do you like flowers?” Ariel rises now, gliding over to one of the long tall vases that resemble her.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “What flowers do you like best?”

  “I have a thing for really tiny orange roses.”

  Ariel smiles. “Of course,” she says knowingly.

  “What, is that gauche of me or something?”

  “Oh no, not at all, Ruby, no, it just suits you is all.”

  I’m not sure how to interpret this so I leave it alone. Ariel and I get down to business. We agree to thirty bucks an hour, which is a lot cheaper than the going rate for this kind of thing but certainly more than I, humble museum worker, ever make.

  “Look,” I say then, “I really do think this whole thing is a bad idea. Your boyfriend sounds like he’s up to no good, and you should dump him and call it a day. Or else follow him yourself. There’s nothing I can do that you can’t.”

  “Please calm down, Ruby, we can work this out.”

  And work it out she does.

  By the time I get home to Coney there’s a message from her on the cell phone she’s just given me. It’s all been arranged. I am to present myself tomorrow evening at the place of an acquaintance of hers in the Chelsea. I should just stay there, at her friend’s, phone in hand, waiting for her to call and tell me when Frank leaves her apartment.

  It’s all a bit much and I nee
d a nap. I herd the cats over to the bed and lie down face first on the comforter.

  Next thing I know, I’m startled awake by the sound of rocks being thrown at my window.

  Oliver Emmerick

  6 / Saint Ludwig’s Mood Swings

  Some days it’s so bad I can’t move, other days it’s the kind of bad where I have to move. I wasn’t quite sure which this was gonna be but the sun was streaming in, blending with the bright yellow of the walls, hurting my eyes a little with its brilliance, and though I was nauseated and had pain traveling up and down my body, I threw back the covers, got up, and put on Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s first record, which I knew was the only thing that would get me moving.

  Once the music was pumping loudly enough to knock a few weighty volumes off the bookshelf, I went into the kitchen and stared at my many boxes of tea. Ever since I got sick, everyone I’ve ever known has come by bringing me soothing and healthful items. I liked tea even before the cancer, though.

  I select one particularly handsome square box of tea that I think had arrived courtesy of Isabelle, one of my more recent exes, an exquisitely intelligent woman who also happens to be a bit of a nympho. Isabelle, though blond, blue-eyed, and enviably young, manages to be loved by all people. All colors. All creeds. And so, though no one else I know gets a very good response from any of the shopkeepers in Chinatown when poking around the beautiful herb stores there, Isabelle is loved by even the notoriously surly Chinese herb store folks. She’d gotten them to make up a specific tea blend involving all sorts of exotic and horrible-smelling herbs that would ostensibly get in the way of my cancer.

  I boiled water, then let the tea steep. Ol’ Dirty Bastard was going off on a tirade about bitches and ho’s, which was bound to disturb Mrs. Nauman next door. Of course, once I’d started noticeably losing weight and hair, Mrs. Nauman, a previously churlish neighbor, became a solicitous soul, and there hasn’t been a peep of complaint out of her in six months. All the same, ODB was starting to get on even my nerves, so I changed over to Beethoven’s Seventh. Which Mrs. Nauman would approve of, even if I wasn’t sure I always did. The thing with old Ludwig is the mood swings. He’ll do something so heartbreakingly exquisite, like the beginning of the second movement of the seventh, and then suddenly go bonkers adding highly unnecessary flourishes and drama. I used to state emphatically that I hated Beethoven, but then my beloved friend Ruby, crafty lass that she is, made me a mixed tape, sneaking some particularly gorgeous Beethoven excerpts onto it. And I was sold on Ruby’s sainted Ludwig.

  I sit down to start sipping at my tea, not sure if I’ll be able to keep it down. The cancer is mostly in my esophagus. Doesn’t make eating or drinking an easy proposition. Or living, for that matter.

  The phone rings and I let the machine get it. Deedee. Another fairly recent ex. A fine woman. Dancer. Used to get me to perform with her sometimes. Hoisting her up over my head. Rolling around on the floor with her. Most of my friends have always made much of my physical abilities. As a kid I was on the swim team, and it shaped my body. Then, from the time I was twenty until a few months ago, I earned most of my living building things. Which made my body strong. Until now, that is. Now I’m a bag of bones.

  The tea stays down and actually does a little something to me. I feel a slight bit better than a half hour ago, but I know if I keep sitting here I’ll start to feel lethargic.

  I get dressed. Pull my belt tight around the waist of my black pants. All my clothes are too big. I put on my smallest button-down white shirt with two layers of T-shirt underneath. I’m not sure where I’m going to go exactly, just know I have to go somewhere.

  I look outside and see that the vivid ball of afternoon sun has suddenly hidden itself behind thick clouds. I grab my raincoat and head out the door.

  I start walking down First Avenue, my body not feeling full of energy, but my lungs and mind glad for the change of scenery. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m on the Brooklyn bound F train. It’s empty this time of day. Just a few schizophrenic-looking individuals. Not that, as far as I know, schizophrenics have visible markings, just that I once heard a statistic that, of the small percentage of Caucasian cab drivers in New York City, ninety percent are schizophrenic. I believe a similar statistic could be applied to daytime F train riders.

  We’re far into the wilds of Brooklyn before I realize I’m going to Coney Island. Maybe I’ll get on the Cyclone, shake up my gray matter. Make myself feel better. I stare out the window as the long dormant parachute drop becomes visible in the distance. I feel my heart dance a little, pleased at the prospect of beautiful desolate Coney. Maybe I’ll even drop in on Ruby unannounced, force her to entertain me awhile.

  I get off the train at the second to last stop, and as I emerge onto Surf Avenue, I realize it’s too silent. The Cyclone isn’t running. I cross over to stare at its entrance anyway. A sign informs me the thing is only open on weekends until the season starts.

  I stand looking around, taking in the raw beauty of the place. It’s windy and the clouds are rolling through the sky, blowing out toward the sea.

  I notice a pack of cute young girls standing near a pay phone, snapping their gum, throwing back their lovely heads. I love girls.

  I consider going over to the Eldorado Arcade to waste a handful of quarters on Skee Ball. But I don’t really feel like it. My body hurts. I walk south on Surf, heading toward Stillwell to go see if Ruby’s around.

  At her building I stare up at her windows and get seized with a tender feeling. We haven’t had sex in a long time. The romance aspect of our liaison faded out years ago after a quick and failed attempt. But I’m crazy about the girl and, over the last few years, whenever bad moments have come to either of us, we’ve spent nights together, just holding onto each other for dear life. Haven’t had one of those in a while, though. Ever since the verdict on my extremely terminal condition. I don’t like to impose my mortality on people I love.

  I crane my neck up but don’t see any sign of activity in Ruby’s windows other than one of the cats, the crazy one, crouched there, looking like some sort of tricolored gargoyle fending off bad spirits and birds. I scoop up a handful of pebbles from the street and start hurling them at the window the cat isn’t guarding. I’m just about to give up when I see Ruby’s face appear.

  She opens the window and squints down at me. “Oliver?” She looks incredulous.

  “Let’s have dinner,” I say, feeling suddenly lighthearted as hell.

  “Dinner?” She squints.

  “Yeah, food, dinner,” I say.

  “What are you doing here?” she says, not seeming upset at the interruption, just surprised.

  “Came out to ride the Cyclone but the fucking thing isn’t running.”

  “Weekends only until Memorial Day,” she says.

  “Yeah. I know that now. Come on. Let’s go. Food,” I say, all of a sudden feeling starved—which doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll be able to keep anything down.

  She tells me she has to get dressed. Asks do I want to come up. I tell her no. I want to stand here. Breathing. Looking around at the big sky and the silent rides.

  “Give me five minutes,” she says, then closes the window and disappears, presumably to change fifty something times because, although she’s not a prissy fashion victim or anything, she takes good care with her appearance and always emerges into the world looking like one of the most delectable women on the face of this fine earth.

  Just as I’m standing, savoring the anticipation of ogling Ruby another stroke of good luck befalls me and the pack of girls from near the Cyclone ambles over toward me. One of them is carrying a surfboard. Though what anyone would do with a surfboard in these docile waters, I don’t know.

  I accost the girls. “Hey, you guys surfing?”

  They look at me with that “white men are disgusting maniacs” look that I love.

  I grin. Tell them I used to surf a lot. One of them, a particularly lovely lass in blinding bright pink jeans, offers a
tentative smile and explains about the surfboard. Some of the girls just came back from a trip to the Atlantic side of Puerto Rico. Did a little surfing. They’re just transporting the board from one house to another right now.

  As the girl speaks, her long silky ponytail sways in the wind, punctuating the rhythm of her speech pattern. I love it. I love her. And all her friends too.

  Just then Ruby emerges. I see her squinting at me. I motion for her to come over. My girls start to look uneasy.

  “Ruby, do you know these ladies?” I ask.

  Ruby glances at the girls then shakes her head no.

  “Ladies, this is my dear friend Ruby Murphy.”

  One of the girls, a funny-looking pudgy one, says she’s seen Ruby in the Coney Island Museum. Ruby brightens at this, asks the girl if she’s interested in Coney’s history. The girl shrugs. Not really. Just wanted to see what was up there. Ruby smiles, and when I can see she’s about to launch into some baroque anecdote about Coney’s glorious past, I take her elbow and guide her toward Surf Avenue, bidding the lovely girls adieu. Beethoven’s Seventh floats through my head. The beginning of the second movement. Before the mood swings.

  Ruby Murphy

  7 / Ball and Chain

  “I love girls,” Oliver states.

  We watch the pack of Spanish girls he’d accosted amble off into the evening, a symphony of sashaying hips and bopping ponytails.

  “I know.” I roll my eyes at my friend.

  “I want bad Italian food,” he says.

  “Ugh.”

  “I have cancer, you have to do what I want.”

  “That’s pretty low.”

  “But effective,” he says, grinning, squeezing my arm, then leading me over toward the subway station. Up ahead I see Guillotine threading his way down Surf Avenue, pitbull pack in tight formation before him, dogs and man forming one fluid mass of muscle as they walk, parting seas of lingering humans. I wave to Guillotine. He frowns. Nods with his chin.