From Herring to Eternity

by Delia Rosen

  “I don’t see it. And then what did she do, poison herself?”

  “A partner-in-crime could’ve,” he suggested. “Maybe there was an insurance policy or an inheritance from parents.”

  “I really don’t think so,” I said. I wasn’t close to being anything like an honest-to-goodness profiler, but I knew women and I knew shock and awe in their eyes. Tippi was a lady in pain, not necessarily from Lippy but from life. The demands of her profession were there, of having to smile while she did God-knew-what to God-knew-who. If she was gunpowder, she would have blown at some john or film producer. Anyway, what could Lippy have had that he wouldn’t have given her freely?

  I told Fly I’d think about the various players and let him and Dickson know if anything occurred to me. I thanked him for coming.

  He touched his fist to his heart. “I don’t like being muscled, but I appreciate that you came to me and not the fuzz.”

  We both smiled. I was still half waiting for him to drop a shiv from his sleeve or pull a zip gun from his pocket, or for the other peeps of De F Chicken to pour from the Caddy. It both pleased and relieved me when he pulled from the curb without a spray of fire from an AK-47.

  I sat there in the silent deli, cocooned by darkness and realizing that I had practically nothing to go on now. If not Fly, then who did kill Lippy and Tippi? And, just as perplexing, why?

  Chapter 24

  Speaking of the dinowhore—a description that both offended me and made me chuckle, a schizophrenic combination—Candy Sommerton was waiting for me when I arrived at the courtroom, nine forty-five on Monday morning.

  “Ms. Katz, how do you think you’re going to do in there?” she asked.

  We were on the lower steps. I kept walking. Candy was hovering close behind her microphone while her camera operator hovered close behind her, both of them undulating as we made our way up the stairs. They reminded me of one of those Chinese New Year’s dragons, complete with the big eyes and protruding tongue.

  “I think it’ll either go for me or against me,” I said.

  Candy was unfazed. Either sarcasm was lost on her or she was bulldog enough to want a useful sound bite. Probably both.

  “Do you feel your actions are impeding the educational growth of our young or standing up for religious freedom?” she pressed.

  “Neither,” I replied icily.

  “How can you say that when you’re denying students access to a historical site while allowing witches to worship there?”

  She succeeded in pissing me off. I knew I shouldn’t, but I stopped.

  “That’s not a question, it’s an accusation.”

  “Are you saying it doesn’t apply?”

  “I’m saying you’re a dinomeeskite,” I said, and walked on. Normally I’m not one for name calling, but she really didn’t leave me another exit.

  As I entered the security area, I saw that Reynold Sterne was in line, looking concerned and self-important, standing right behind Andrew Dickson III, who looked composed and self-important. They both gave me the briefest glance as they emptied their pockets and went through the metal detector. By the time I got inside, they were seated in the gallery. Joseph Bushyhead was already present.

  The judge entered promptly at ten and our “matter” was called by the clerk.

  “I’ve read the relevant police and medical accounts of the assault on Ms. Katz, and have decided that until the police investigation into this matter is completed there will be neither a university or Wiccan presence on the property.”

  That drew instant objections from both attorneys. The judge was ready for them; she whammed her gavel once, hard.

  “The security of our citizens must take precedence over any other consideration, and as we do not know whether either of these parties or some third party was responsible for the home invasion and attack, until the picture is clearer, this order will be in effect.”

  “Your Honor, may a representative of the university address the court?” Dickson asked.

  “There is no point, since the order has been given and recorded.”

  “But Your Honor, the ruling taints by association the spotless record of a highly regarded institution—”

  “Which, I see, hired a criminally charged mixed martial artist as a security guard for the property and did not directly disclose to the victim in this matter that it possessed a key to her home. Does the statement address these questionable actions?”

  “We did not know they would be presented for rebuttal.”

  “Then you may rebut them one week from today when we reconvene on this matter,” she said. The gavel came down again. The next case was called.

  It wasn’t a total victory for me, but it was definitely a setback for everyone else. A week without trespassers suddenly seemed like the greatest gift in the world. It didn’t mean that whoever blew toxins in my face wouldn’t be back, but it’s an imperfect world. Hopefully, that threat wouldn’t linger much longer.

  I managed to avoid Candy Sommerton by waiting until Dickson had left. I had a feeling he’d go right for the camera to kvetch about the order. I hurried away, arriving at the deli just in time to help with the lunch rush. I still hadn’t decided what to do about Fly and the trumpet case, whether or not to tell Grant. There didn’t seem any reason to. Plus, I had promised Fly.

  Thom was giddy with delight when I told her what had happened in court. Obviously, it wasn’t just my good news but Dickson’s bad news that pleased her. I already knew what my daily observation would be: that for some people, ecstasy is expressed by clucking like a grogger, a Purim noisemaker.

  To my surprise—and to the surprise of the staff—the deli was packed. It was as if a bus giving tours of all the Jewish establishments in Tennessee had parked on my street. Only as the diners took their seats did I realize who—and what—it was.

  They were students. And they were only ordering coffee. When that was finished, they ordered—ironically—more coffee, which is free. They just sat and drank and talked and texted and iPadded for an hour, forcing regular customers or actual tourists to go elsewhere. It was like Occupy Wall Street, but with an IQ.

  “What’s going on?” Thom asked after the first round of coffees.

  “I’m guessing Reynold Sterne had this ready to go,” I said. “When the ruling went against them, he had his university students ready to thank me.”

  “And we will do this, like, every day,” said a short, plucky thing with stringy hair, critical eyes, thrift shop clothes, and a voice that twittered from somewhere in her nasal cavity. “It’s called civil disobedience.”

  “Actually, it’s called a sit-in,” I said, “only with a cup of joe. And despite what Dr. Sterne may have told you, this will not be a daily occurrence. New store policy: refills are not free. Next new store policy: starting tomorrow, there will be a sign announcing a thirty minute limit during prime dining hours. Enjoy your java—what’s your name?”

  “Kamala Moon.”

  “Right. Sterne mentioned you. Your future depends on your digging up my basement.”

  “It’s larger than that,” she said, standing her ground. “The advancement of knowledge depends on defeating inquisitors like you. We will find other ways to express ourselves.”

  “And other places,” I said.

  “You little brat!” Thom finally jumped in, her good humor having burned away.

  “She’s not a brat,” I said. “She’s part of a generation that was never taught ‘no.’ She’s the result of a political mindset that told her she’s entitled to take from me because she’s a student with no money. But if she knows her history—and I hope she does, being educated and all, I hope she realizes that her kind always loses. They lose because you can’t build anything by stealing bricks, occupying the site, or damning the landlord. You want to hurt me? Open a deli across the street.” I came closer to that stern, unforgiving face. “But that takes effort, not just a short-term snit or an easy condemnation.”

  “You don�
�t know me well enough to call me names!” She shouted that, silencing the other voices in the deli. “We want to work! We want to learn! You’re the one who’s stopping us!”

  “I’m not stopping anything,” I said. “You want to dig in my den?”

  “We want what we were promised.”

  “Well, kid, life threw you a legal curve,” I said. “Nothing is guaranteed. I asked you a question.”

  She took a moment to replay it in her angry little brain. “Yes. We want to dig, to expand our understanding of—”

  “Then stop hockin me a chinick,” I told her. “Buy the damn place, tear it down, do whatever the hell you want. That gets you access. This gets you nothing.”

  “But we may not find anything!” a voice said from one of the tables. I turned to look at a young white man with dreadlocks and the best urbanwear daddy’s credit card could buy. “We need to know that.”

  “Boychik,” I said, “you pays your money and you takes your chances.”

  “Amen,” Thom said.

  Kamala Moon’s sneer was instantaneous and audible. “That’s your take, old lady.” Her eyes rolled to Thom. “Old ladies.” She looked back at me. “You talk about entitlement but, like, you need to make a profit or you won’t help us. That’s part of the past, too. We know about it and we don’t accept it.” She moved in closer now. We were practically eye-to—well, my chin. “We will dig there, I promise. One way or another, education will defeat your greed.”

  And then I saw it. Her height about a forehead less than mine. A puff of toxin, a blur, and then me hitting the cold, weedy front lawn. She saw that I saw it and she smiled.

  The young woman, with ice in her lips, leaned close to my ear and said, “Prove it.”

  I don’t know what chilled me more, the act she had committed or the confident, unremorseful, cold-bloodedness with which she took ownership of it.

  I stepped back. I smiled. “Not a problem.”

  “Liar,” she replied, remaining stoic as you please.

  I turned to the student with the dreadlocks. “Tell you what. Let’s see who has the courage of their convictions. Your archaeological team can have free access to my den. Come and go whenever you want for as long as you want.”

  “What’s the catch?” the young man asked.

  “I love it,” I said. “I’m supposed to give freely but it’s a ‘catch’ when I ask for something from you. Here it is: I want spit. From each of you.”

  The dining room was even quieter than before. The few patrons who were not students were riveted, like they were in the audience of Court TV.

  “Like, what are you even talking about?” Kamala Moon asked.

  “The NPD pulled some DNA from my boiler room,” I said. “That’s where the intruder was on the night I was attacked.” I paused. “I’m sure all of you know my home was invaded and I was assaulted. Or didn’t your ringleader tell you that?”

  There was a low murmur. Obviously, the covert action had been need-to-know.

  “I think it was a pair of students who had access to my door key and I want to know who they were,” I went on. “Those two individuals will probably spend the first year of the dig in prison for criminal trespass and aggravated assault . . . but your sacrifice will give the rest of the students access to a potentially valuable historical site.” I looked around at two dozen or so blank young faces that gave me very little hope for the future. I stopped on the pale face surrounded by knotted braids. “So? Do we have a deal? Everyone spit into a cup and you can start jackhammering tonight.”

  There were a few “sures” and “yeahs” and a couple of “is that legals” but only granite silence from Dreadlock Boy and Belladonna Girl.

  I turned back to the little moisheh kapoyer sitting at the table. He was the weak link. He was probably the dope who went downstairs and pretended to be a Civil War laborer.

  “You look like you want to spit,” I said. I plucked a napkin from a holder and turned my cheek toward him. “Go ahead. Right there. Unless you’ve got something to hide. In which case, with all these witnesses testifying that you refused, the court can demand it.”

  “Don’t spit—because you’re not an animal!” Kamala told him.

  “That’s right,” the young man said to me. “I’m not.”

  “No,” I said. “Just a coward who won’t own up to his actions.” I gave him another few seconds. He looked away. I turned back to the ringleader. “How about you?”

  She hesitated. “I’ll give you my spit.”

  I moved in so the others couldn’t hear. “Because you weren’t inside my house. You didn’t perspire on my floor. You just blew poison in my face. You don’t get charged unless your buddy cracks and rats when they pin this on him. And they will. So here’s the deal. You do a quick about-face with the prof. You and your friends. You find other projects for your theses. You convince him to leave me alone. Maybe—maybe—he and I can work something out without a gun to our heads . . . or belladonna in our faces. Do that or do time.”

  Watching Kamala Moon was like watching a blowfish . . . deflate. Now that she had something to lose, she wasn’t so interested in manning the barricades. And maybe there was something else at work, the revelation that there was another way to do this. Not by making demands but by making conversation. If college taught her nothing but that, it would be worth the time and expense.

  “You promise to talk to Dr. Sterne?” she asked, some of her belligerence returning—for show, I imagined.

  “I said I would. Don’t push me.”

  “You’re pushing me.”

  “I’m thinking those should be your last words before you go,” I said.

  Young Kamala Moon, the self-appointed voice of her generation, hesitated—then grabbed her bag and turned to go. Thom was standing in front of her, between tables, so she couldn’t go around.

  “That’ll be a buck from everyone,” Thom said in a loud voice. “And a tip would be greatly appreciated by your waitstaff.”

  Kamala Moon fished a crumpled dollar from her back pocket. Bills and coins hit the tables like pennies from heaven as the kids didn’t wait for the checks but left. When the door had clapped shut behind the last of the powdered tuchases, Luke came from the kitchen and hugged me.

  “You were awesome,” he said.

  There were nods from the remaining patrons and proud smiles from the staff. I grinned tightly then went to my office to plotz. The whole thing was kind of a blur, and I think I was mostly bluffing, but at least the second of the mysteries was cleared up.

  I knew who took the trumpet case.

  I knew who tried to poison me.

  Now all that remained was the eight hundred pound behemot in the room: who killed Lippy and Tippi?

  Chapter 25

  It was strange to be checking off solutions without sharing them with Grant. Not strange in a personal context, just in a procedural sense. In the few cases that had fallen in my lap since Hoppy Hopewell literally fell in my lap, he was always a part. That’s how we hooked up, turning brainstorming into a sleepover.

  It felt good to be flying solo in that regard as well. It was narcotic, lifting me from the quasi-depression that I was in. I blew through the rest of the day on adrenaline, and when I went home, I was ready to sleep. The lawn was clear of Wiccans and their tent, the street was clear of what may or may not have been Dickson watching me from a car, and I didn’t smell anything that hinted of an unwashed mass. I knew I was safe because my cats came to the door to let me know they were hungry.

  I felt a twinge of guilt as I cranked open two cans of cat food. The way I thought about the students did cause me to face the fact that my disappointment with the young and with Dickson was turning me into something of a reactionary. I had seen that happen with my uncles and with senior investment people. I had never liked it in them and I didn’t like it in me—though apart from this little pang, I didn’t throw up any sandbags. They had caused it. That’s why the word was “reactionary.” And there
was—of course—a Yiddish phrase which took on that inevitability: An ofter gast falt tsu last.

  A frequent guest becomes a burden.

  Throughout my adult life I’ve listened, I’ve listened some more, I’ve given to charity, I’ve given my trust, and all I hear is the same thing: give me what you worked hard to have. Not just my assets but my self-respect. My freedom. So I’ve moved to the right where I don’t have to hear. I’ve backed away from men so I don’t have to be disappointed.

  Who’s at fault?

  I had brought home split pea soup, and while I warmed it and heated a few slices of challah, I went to the laptop on the coffee table and checked e-mail and Facebook. There was nothing pressing, nothing especially interesting. Facebook had too many obscure posts with people asking what they meant, or self-pitying laments with friends offering the expected buck-up replies. It was a waste of tired eyeballs. Even the photos, which took too long to load, showed more and more people who I knew less and less about. Allie Mihalko, who I had worked with in New York, had a husband and he had a family. My Manhattan neighbors had puppies; I was glad I wasn’t there to hear them bark.

  Vei is mir, I thought. The world is growing utterly narcissistic and you are going completely sour.

  Thinking of the world made me wonder if the earth was happy, now that it wasn’t going to be forced to share its bounty with the university. I went ahead and looked to see if there was a Facebook page for the Nashville Coven. There was for everything else. I hadn’t bothered to look before because, honestly, I’d had enough of Wiccans right from the start. Now was the time to do the whole “keep your enemies closer” thing.

  I found it and was surprised to find someone I didn’t know post about this being the fifth anniversary of their entry into the coven. There were, as was to be expected, a battery of “likes” and a flurry of congratulatory replies.

  There was something else. More of the same.

  I got my soup and sat by the computer with it and researched Wiccan anniversaries. They were referred to as Days of the Propicius Spritus. I looked it up. The phrase was a merging of English, Middle English, and Latin—symbolically, a stretching-across-time—and it meant, not unexpectedly, days of propitious spirits. Meaning that it was a good time to act.