Mew is for Murder

by Clea Simon

  “Excellent. Get it in by Monday, we’ll run it on Wednesday.” He pushed back from his desk and swiveled to face the computer. I was dismissed.

  But I have a conscience. “One more thing, Tim.” He looked up, surprised to still see me there.

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you know a writer named Ethan, Ethan Reinhardt?”

  “Never heard of him.” He started to turn away. Either Ethan hadn’t started pitching stories yet, or he was having second thoughts about leaving news. Still, I’d said I’d put a word in. Freelancer solidarity and all that.

  “Well, I’ve read some of his stuff. He’s looking to get into features, and I was wondering if I could give him your name.”

  “Suit yourself, Krakow. If you want to make your own competition….” He turned away and I swallowed, hard. There had to be some karmic payback in this life for good deeds, right?

  mmm

  “So, Ralph! Ralph?” He had his earphones on. I swung his chair around with him in it, causing him to scramble as the Discman slid off the pile of press releases and cardboard mailers that obscured his desktop.

  “Hold on. Wait a minute.” He took the headset off. “What’s up, Theda?”

  “Who’s playing the Casbah tonight? Your friend Connor called to tell me it was going to be a good show.” I was hoping I sounded casual.

  Ralph didn’t buy it. “Connor called, huh?” He looked at me in a way I couldn’t read at all. I thought about clearing a space on his desk to sit on and pulled over another chair instead, putting my feet up on his opened top drawer.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.” He reached for headphones again, and I reached to stop him.

  “Come on, Ralph. Give it up.”

  “Well, I’m just surprised, that’s all.” He sulked, momentarily, lower lip out. Could that be jealousy, or just hangover-fueled grumpiness? “I’d have thought maybe you were too bookish for him. Must be the red hair. But don’t look to him for anything like domestication. He’s out almost every night. And sometimes I don’t hear him come back.”

  “He’s staying with you?” He’d given me a number, but I hadn’t used it. And although I’ve known Ralph for years, I’ve never had reason to call him at home.

  “Yeah, didn’t I tell you? He’s new in town and he needed a place to stay.” This was food for thought. “He’s a nice enough guy, though, Theda. I mean, we just know each other through the clubs, but he’s fun and, thus far, he’s done his share of the grocery shopping.” I envisioned Ralph’s fridge and shuddered. “I just thought you should know, I don’t think he’s exactly boyfriend material.”

  Great. Well, he’d been pursuing me, right? “Is he a musician or something?” Maybe he just wanted some press coverage. “I did a Google search, but nothing came up.”

  Ralph glowered again and I knew I’d crossed a line. In club circles, it was incredibly uncool to ask what someone did for work. So many of us were in the “slash” category: poet-slash-waitress, painter-slash-cabbie. But I was looking for a rationale. And besides, despite Ralph’s warning, I was curious.

  “He’s some kind of artist, I think. At least that’s what he tells you ladies.” From the way he rolled his eyes, Ralph was unimpressed. “He’s definitely done a lot of things. And, yes, he did ask me about you, more than once.”

  Had I been that obvious? No matter. I could feel the smile splitting my face and grabbed a lock of my own hair to chew on as cover. Ralph wasn’t buying that either. “Ah, spring,” he said. “Romance is in the air.” He started to push the headphones back over his ears, then paused. “And the band tonight is the Brought Low from Brooklyn. They’re really worth hearing. Get there early.”

  mmm

  “You don’t need a new man, you need a new cat.” I’d pulled Bunny away from her cubicle for a confab in the Mail cafeteria. She was firm. “Get settled in your home life first. The rest will follow.”

  I’d made her take her break with me, dragging her away from a huge pile of barely legible library search request forms, and then filled most of it with descriptions of Connor between bites of a tuna salad roll-up. I was starting to get silly, to read too much into too little information, and she wasn’t having any of it.

  “He calls you, but not to take you out on a proper date? He doesn’t offer to pick you up? And his best friend warns you that he’s not the domestic type? I don’t like it.” Whatever version of an afterlife my parents had settled in, they didn’t have to worry that I was being looked after.

  “Let’s just see what happens with this one,” I tried to reassure her as I finished my sandwich and pushed the chips aside. For myself, I had no doubts. “I don’t even know how close Connor and Ralph are.” That raised Bunny’s eyebrows. “Hey, I’m a big girl, remember.”

  “You’re tall, Theda. That’s not the same thing. Be careful.”

  She had to go back to work. Shouldn’t have taken the break at all, she grumbled. Shouldn’t have eaten so many of my chips. So I walked her back down to the library and drove home singing. I didn’t know what I sounded like to those contractors I’d promised to call when I reached them about an hour later. But, hey, they’d get publicity out of the story. Three quotes from each and I made my farewells, typed up my notes without reading them and turned the computer off. Another bowl of Raisin Bran for dinner, and it was time to get ready for my night out.

  Chapter Eight

  I’m not one for dressing up, and club lighting—furthered by the atmospherics of alcohol—isn’t too particular. Still, I wanted to look nice and made sure my black jeans were clean and flatteringly snug from a recent spin in the dryer in my building’s basement. I mulled a bit over what top to pair with them: silk was way too fancy, but except for one or two good blouses the rest of my wardrobe consisted of band tee shirts and those durable polyester work clothes I hoped never to have to don again. A run through my closet yielded up a man-tailored blouse, dyed a brilliant turquoise by one of my favorite second-hand stores. By some miracle, it appeared freshly pressed, and the color set off the gold in my red hair without making my winter-pale face any more sallow than usual. Musetta sat on the bed as I buttoned the blouse, turning to and fro to check how it looked from the back once I tucked it in. She was an adorable kitten, with those wide eyes appraising me. She looked so pensive I was tempted to think that something was wrong.

  “Don’t you like it, kitty?” I swooped around, startling her for a moment as I gathered her up for a cuddle and a kiss. “Not everyone can be as perfectly groomed as you are, or as stylish! Or are you thinking about your cousins?” The thought of all those cats stuck in the shelter made me hesitate about my own happiness, and I hugged the little kitten harder. She squirmed, and I set her back on the bed. “I’ll see what I can do, Musetta. I promise,” I said, but she scampered away. I’d have to do without her best wishes on this sort-of date, but she was too young to know better anyway.

  mmm

  The club was hopping when I got there, a little after ten. Already it was steamy, the windows fogged up and the noisy room too hot for the black leather jacket I’d grabbed on my way out of the apartment. Not that I regretted it: outside, the May warmth had faded with the dusk, and besides, I liked bowing just this much to rock and roll convention. A quick glance around the room yielded a few greetings and a couple of familiar faces, but not the one I was looking for.

  “Hey, stranger!” I looked behind me and saw Violet in full regalia: hair spiked and newly colored and wearing a cut-off tee shirt that showed the bracelet-like tattoos encircling her upper arm. “You here to see me?”

  “You’re playing tonight? Cool, I didn’t know!” To be honest, I wasn’t sure she’d told me the name of her band, but as I followed her toward the bar, she tapped on the set list that was tacked to the adjacent wall: 10:30, The Violet Haze Experience, I read, to be followed by some band I’d never heard of and then “From NYC!” The Brought Low, closing the night with a 12:30 start time.

&n
bsp; “First time for everything,” she smiled. The bartender brought her a bottle of Bud and waved away her offer to pay. “I’ll put you on the list.” She slapped a dollar on the bar and turned to head back to the music room, the big downstairs area where the bands played. “Oh, I almost forgot.” I caught a glimpse of a particularly intricate Celtic knot design on her shoulder as she turned back to me. “There’s going to be a memorial service on Saturday. Behind the house, if the weather’s good. If not, maybe the coffeehouse. I’ll post something there anyway.”

  Her words sparked a memory. “Violet, before you go.” Not good timing, I could tell. She was due onstage in a few. “You’ve really got to stop going into Lillian’s house. You know it’s illegal.”

  “I’m not breaking and entering, Theda. I’ve got a key. Well, I know where Lillian always left her spare key, right under the last slate on the path.”

  “But the cop, the detective who I spoke with that day. He says that it’s off-limits until they figure out who inherits and what will happen to the house. He says you could be arrested for trespassing.”

  “You talked to the cops?”

  “It came out.” I rushed to intercept her anger. “It was an accident, sort of.”

  “You spoke to the cops. By accident.” I had her full attention now.

  “I ran into that detective, Bill Sherman, at the Central Café. Over in JP?” She nodded, willing to accept that cops went to hear music sometimes. “He started telling me that Lillian’s death had been ruled accidental. So I had to tell him what you’d told me, about the medic-alert necklace and everything.” He’d seemed really reasonable and accepting of everything I’d told him, I remembered. Quite nice, really. But I wasn’t going to try to convince Violet of that.

  “I getcha. It’s okay. I mean, I haven’t found anything that could have caused anyone to want to hurt her, not yet. It’s just that, well, cops and I don’t get along. I have my reasons. And I can’t stop looking through Lillian’s stuff. Not yet.”

  “But if you’re busted….”

  “Look, I can’t explain now. That’s my drummer and if she’s waving to me then you know I’m late.”

  “Go! Break a string!” I waved her off. I wanted to talk to her about the cats, maybe get some more information, but she was clearly too busy. I’d catch my breath and have one more look around before following her.

  “I’ll be looking for you down there! And we’ll talk. Later.” She disappeared into the crowd.

  I made one more slow sweep around the room and ducked into the ladies’. As suspected, the hot damp had already taken the starch out of my shirt collar and caused the natural curl in my shoulder-length hair to burst forth in abundance. Ah well, Connor had first seen me after a day of death and Worcester and he’d still called. Twice.

  With that happy thought I made my way through the crowd, weaving slowly and almost sideways, to the back door that led into the music room.

  Downstairs, the air was a good ten degrees cooler and, except for the ashy smell of old cigarettes, a lot more comfortable. Only about twenty people mulled around the large dark room, gathered mainly at the bar rather than in front of the still-dark stage. I felt a twinge of guilt at letting Violet guest-list me; her band could have used the five bucks. But then the soundman wandered over to his station, the lights over the raised stage switched on, and Violet took the stage with a bang.

  With a crash, actually, as she tore into her guitar and her drummer jumped on a kit that had been pared down to hard-beat essentials. Fast repeated chords—part Eddie Cochran, part Billy Zoom—filled the almost empty room, almost loud enough to obscure the solid bottom of bass notes that supported the whole structure. It was brilliant noise, and I felt my body begin to move. Already the drinkers were turning toward the stage. And then Violet began to sing, or more accurately to caterwaul, high and urgent but somehow or other exactly right.

  “Yeah!” I yelled, and the short girl in front of me turned around and smiled. Girl! Despite her moon face and innocent smile, she was probably a few years past the legal limit of twenty-one. I was thinking my age. But the music was as exciting as it had been when I’d first started sneaking into clubs as a teen. And age be damned: we were all dancing, moving as a unit now, the few faces in attendance bobbing and weaving as Violet’s trio stopped on a dime and broke into another number without any appreciable loss of energy. I turned around and saw the crowd had nearly doubled, another couple of people pushing through the door as I looked. None of them was Connor, and I thought he’d be sorry to be missing this. I started dancing again, knowing full well what my hair would look like. Ah well, Medusa herself would have appreciated this band. Bam—another song ended and the three launched into a slow number, an intricate bass pattern taking over, and I could almost hear Violet’s words.

  Something about love and anger, I made out, and then she soloed, sharp and fast as befitted her punk origins. Her drummer was soaked, her neck and arms glistening with sweat, the front of her pink baby-T already stained dark. But her bassist was smiling, tall and proud, with only her hands revealing the effort of keeping each three-minute whiplash on key and in rhythm.

  “Great, huh?” The short young fan I’d noticed before was shouting up at me, round face all aglow. Somehow I’d pushed up beside her and now I nodded back, smiling. “I’ve loved Violet for years!” she yelled. She was either older than I’d thought, or shared the habits of my younger days and a good fake ID.

  “I’d never heard her before!” I yelled back when the music next went into a lull. She looked at me, pierced eyebrows raised in astonishment. Clearly, I was old. I danced on, anyway, facing the stage as the three instruments started into a syncopated assault, a reggae-filigreed structure that allowed Violet’s shrill-sweet voice to soar. Then the bassist joined in, a strong alto counterpart to the near hysteria on top. Instrumental breaks let them breathe, and then back again and just that fast, another song was done.

  “I know her through the cats!” I yelled over to the short dancer. Even in the moments between songs, the noise level had grown.

  Nodding, the young fan responded, “Yeah, Violet the Vet. If she ever can afford it. I want her to keep on playing though.”

  Another song began, a slow one again, with the two voices intertwining over a simple repeated riff. A tall, skinny young woman—easily three inches above me, and probably a few pounds lighter—squeezed in and wrapped her arms around my conversation partner. The tempo picked up and we all danced again, breathing as one for as long as the music lasted.

  mmm

  After the set, I surfaced for air. I couldn’t believe Ralph and Connor had missed it, but there they were when I went back into the front room, sitting by the bar.

  “Ah, there’s our rosy-cheeked lass!” Connor immediately dismounted from the high wooden bar chair and swung it around to welcome me.

  “You look all hot and bothered,” added Ralph, with his usual tact.

  “You wouldn’t believe what you just missed.” I started to tell them, taking the seat and swigging down the full water glass the waitress placed before me. The hair I pushed back from my face felt damp and springy with curl. “The Violet Haze Experience. They were incredible.”

  Connor looked interested. Ralph, however, rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah, they send me fliers all the time. Nuevo-riot grrl, with a touch of speed metal, right? Sleater-Kinney wannabes.”

  “C’mon, Ralph, that’s not fair. I mean, yeah, you can hear their influences, but they’ve got an energy and they’ve also got some great songs.”

  “I forget you were such a pop fan, Theda.” He said it as if a sense of melody and song structure was a bad thing. “A good hook and you can dance to it, right?”

  “Ralph….” I started in, but he had already turned to look for the bartender. “Risa? Risa! We need a refill here.” He turned back to look at me. “Too much estrogen. I need the antidote.”

  Before I could respond, Connor had his hand on my seat back, his arm almost a
round my shoulder. “Don’t mind him, Theda. He’s never comfortable with women who can kick his ass.” He leaned in close, as if to let me in on a secret, and I couldn’t help breathing in the warm, slightly spicy scent of him. “I, however, admire feisty women.”

  Whoa, girl, I told myself as I smiled up into those deep-blue eyes. “Thanks.” That was all I could say without losing any dignity I had left. I didn’t really know this man. And besides, we were in a public place. Much to my surprise, Ralph saved me by shoving me with his elbow.

  “Whatcha having?”

  “Don’t bother, Ralph, Blue Moon coming up,” Risa answered for me, by which point I’d recovered enough to respond like an adult human.

  “Thanks, Connor. I just get so mad. That attitude is why I’m no longer focusing on music criticism,” I told him. That, and I couldn’t get enough assignments to make the pitching worthwhile, but that was more information than he needed. “We’re supposed to be out there, listening. In print, we all say we’re dying to hear something new, and we all would love to discover the next big thing. But god forbid anyone should appear uncool by liking something that doesn’t pan out in the great artistic race. And the result is new bands don’t get heard.”

  “Especially new bands led by women, right?” If he was trying to win me over, he was doing a great job. I nodded my assent, but didn’t trust myself to speak.

  “So, you ready to hear a real rock band?” Ralph grimaced and bit his lower lip as he mimed a guitar solo. “Get ready to rock!” He knew he’d gotten to me and was trying to make nice. The result was charming as a lovestruck eleven-year-old. Next thing, he’d put a frog down my shirt.

  “I’ll give an honest listen to your boy-rock,” I teased right back. Two could play at that game. Or three. I smiled up at Connor to invite him in on my side, and we all began to talk at once, praising bands we’d heard—or heard about—and generally showing off our fandom and our expertise. The mood restored, I couldn’t bear not knowing what my hair looked like after the sweat and frenzy of Violet’s set, and after a few verbal parries excused myself to hit the head, which was back by the music room. Although I lacked either a brush or a pick, a quick finger comb separated out some of the worst tendrils, giving me what I liked to think was a pre-Raphaelite crown of curls. My face was glowing, though whether still from the heat of dancing or from Connor’s attention, I couldn’t tell. Not bad for thirty-three, I told the reflection in the dim, chipped mirror. Not bad at all, I cheered myself on, and turned to return to the men.