Josh scowled at his brother. “Shut up, you dumbhead, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Gee,” I said to no one in particular. “I must have misheard. I was sure there was a rule against saying ‘shut up’ in our house.”
Josh muttered, “I thought she was smart, that’s all.” He turned to Michael, anxious to get away from the language discussion and back to the topic at hand. “But Dad, what does that have to do with where you and Mom were all night?”
Michael took a sip. “So, Mom’s become friends—well, acquainted with the mother of the guy who’s in prison. The guy my students were trying to help. And his mom owns a jazz club in San Francisco. And last night, something pretty bad happened. It caught fire and burned down. And the police think someone might have set the fire.”
“Wow,” said Josh. “This is like a movie.”
“Not a movie with a very happy ending, sport,” said Michael. “This guy’s mother has a whole lot of troubles. Her son’s in prison, her home is gone, because she lived over the club, and the way she makes her living is gone, too.”
Zach looked stricken. “She can have my birthday money this year,” he said. “You know, when Nonna sends it to me.”
Michael shook his head. “That is really generous of you,” he said. “But Ivory has a friend who helps take care of her, I think. And I’m fairly sure she has insurance, so there will be money to help her rebuild the club.”
“Why do the police think someone set the fire?” asked Josh.
“I don’t know exactly,” I said. “Something about the way the fire burned. But they’ve got people investigating it, so we’ll know more pretty soon.”
“But why would they do it?” asked Josh. “In the movies, people set buildings on fire for the insurance. But that’s like if they’re broke and need money right away.” He hesitated. “Hey, maybe that’s it. Maybe this lady set her own place on fire.”
Michael and I exchanged glances. “I don’t think so,” I said. “It’s hard to explain why, but she really loved that place, and wanted her son to come home to it. When he gets out of prison.”
“You mean ‘if,’” corrected Josh.
“That’s right,” said Michael. “Mom meant ‘if.’”
We all sat silent around the table. Anya’s eyes had welled with tears. “This is such a sad story,” she said.
“It is right now,” I said. “But the story isn’t over yet.”
Michael got up suddenly and began pulling milk and eggs out of the fridge. “You guys had anything but cereal this morning?”
“No,” said Anya, “that’s all they wanted when they got up.”
“How’s about pancake men?” he asked.
I watched in admiration as he began handing out assignments. “Josh, rinse these blueberries, would you? Zach, why don’t you go set the table. Anya, want to make some more orange juice?”
“I can help,” I offered.
Michael shook his head. “Go take a quick shower, cara, you’ll feel better and smell much better.” I struggled to my feet and walked over to Michael who was breaking eggs into a bowl. I slipped my arms around him and rested my head against his back.
“How do I smell?” he asked. “Same as you, I bet.”
“You smell like heaven,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Hey,” he countered. “It’s just blueberry pancake men with raisin eyes. Doesn’t fix much in the world.”
“It does in mine,” I said, and headed upstairs to the shower.
CHAPTER 37
The phone rang half a dozen times during breakfast, and I resolutely let it go to message. When I listened afterward, I jotted down the calls: Isabella, Calvin, Andrea, Hoyt, Puck.
Before I could return calls, there was a knock on the front door, and Calvin and Andrea let themselves in. Calvin had his camera bag; Andrea was lugging two enormous shopping bags.
“Come on in,” I said. “There’s coffee and maybe even a few pancakes left.” I gestured to Andrea’s bags. “What’s in there?”
“Clothes for Ivory,” she said. “We’re more or less the same size. I’m assuming she doesn’t have much of a wardrobe left. I thought I’d throw in whatever you wanted to add, and we could drop these things off at the hotel. And I went to the all-night drugstore and got some basics—toothbrushes and stuff.”
“You’re productive,” I said.
“I got up with Calvin when you called. He wouldn’t let me come with him, and I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I had to do something useful,” said Andrea.
We settled around the table, while the kids cleared up from breakfast. Michael returned to the stove to pour more pancakes.
Calvin was setting up his laptop on the kitchen table and inserting the memory stick from his camera. “Come over here, Maggie,” he said. “Check out what I got.”
“I don’t know if I can stand to look,” I said.
He glanced up at me. “You have absolutely no instinct for news, do you?”
“Not much,” I said. “It’s not as if Small Town covers breaking news, anyway.” I sat down next to him, and leaned over his shoulder. “How’d you get close enough to get all these photos? Weren’t the firefighters keeping people away?”
Calvin gave me a smug, self-satisfied look. “I have press credentials from a couple publications I freelance for. I keep them in the glove box; you never know when they’ll come in handy. Plus Moon helped me get a little closer, on the condition that I let him look at the shots. Since I wasn’t really shooting on assignment…”
I bridled. “You were, too. You’re shooting for us.”
“Chill, Mags. You’re not going to care if I let Moon see the shots. He and the arson guys are just looking for whatever they can find.”
He clicked on the little camera icon, and a shot of Ivory, sitting on the overturned paint can, her usually elegant, squared-up, dancer’s shoulders slumped, filled the screen. “God help us,” I said. “What is going on here?”
Calvin shook his head and began clicking through the photos, stopping occasionally to zoom in, or blow the image up for clarity. Andrea leaned against the counter, talking with Michael.
On the screen, I watched images of the latest wretched chapter of Ivory’s life—a shot of the bar, with overturned bar stools, and a shattered mirror in back of it; the ashy skeleton of an easy chair from what must have been her bedroom; a kitchen counter, its surface peeling in great strips like a smoke-blackened, peeled orange.
“This is so awful,” I said. “It’s like watching somebody’s life go by.” Calvin continued silently clicking, image after image. He came to a sequence of burned books and bookcases. On top of the bookcase, there was a scatter of picture frames, smashed, the photos inside the frames, soot-streaked beyond recognition.
Something caught my eye. I put my hand on Calvin’s arm. “Slow down a second,” I said.
He took his finger off the mouse. “I don’t think any of these are usable, Mags,” he said. “I was just shooting whatever I saw.”
“I know,” I said. “But hang on.” I pointed to a corner of the image, a pile of old VHS tapes, half-melted, cardboard covers charred, in a heap on the floor. “Can you zoom in on that? Make it a little bigger?”
“Sure,” he said, and the image got bigger, and blurrier. I blinked my eyes, trying to see more clearly.
“It’s too fuzzy,” I said.
“Hey,” protested Calvin, “I told you these weren’t usable.”
“I don’t want to use this image,” I said. “I just want to see it.” Calvin clicked a few more times, and the image resolved a little.
“Can you read that title?” I asked. “Your eyes are younger than mine.” I pointed at the screen.
“Just pieces of it,” said Calvin. “Something-vah in Mal?” He squinted at the screen. “Must be a place. It’s capitalized. Malaysia? Malaga?”
“Mali,” I said. “Isn’t that in West Africa?”
Calvin nodded. “Yeah, I think so
. Used to have some other name, I think.” He looked at me. “Should I go on?”
“No, wait a minute,” I said.
“Pancakes are ready,” said Michael. “Andrea, why don’t you and Calvin sit down and eat something? Maggie will get you some plates and silverware.” Something was nibbling at my brain, but I stood, went to the cupboard, and pulled out plates and silverware and more napkins. I added two juice glasses to the stack and put everything on the table.
Michael delivered pancakes to the waiting plates, and I pushed the butter and syrup toward Calvin and Andrea. I pulled Calvin’s laptop screen so that it was facing me. “Michael,” I said, “get yourself some coffee and come sit down a minute. You’ve been doing all the work.”
“And don’t you forget it,” he said, bringing his coffee mug to the table and collapsing in the chair next to me. “You’re definitely on soccer duty this afternoon. Both the boys have games, but they’re playing at adjoining fields. So you luck out.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Right. Look at this.” I turned the screen to face him.
He peered at the screen, rubbed his eyes, and peered again. “What do you want me to see? It’s just a very sad shot of a big mess.”
“No,” I said. “Look again. Can you make out the title of that movie?” I pointed to the blackened box on the screen.
Michael leaned closer. “Something-vah in Mal?” he said. “Maybe it’s that awful candy-bar stuff the kids like, Halvah?”
“Suppose it’s something-vah in Mali,” I said.
“I give up. Suppose it is?”
“I really wish I could figure out what the title is,” I said.
“You are obsessing about some strange stuff,” said Calvin. “But, if you’re so hot to figure it out, it can’t be that hard.”
“What do you mean?”
“Here, give me that thing,” he said, pushing his plate to one side, and reaching for the laptop.
He licked the syrup off his fingers, and then cast an eye at Andrea. “Hey, honey, want to do this for me?”
She gave him her signature Starchy Storch stare.
“Okay.” He grinned. “Just asking.”
With the laptop in front of him, he put his fingers on the keyboard and started typing. “So, let’s assume Mali is the last word,” he said. “Means it’s a movie set in West Africa. How many of those could there be? Well, let’s just see.” I peered over his shoulder. He gestured with one hand, “Maggie, go eat another pancake or something, I can’t concentrate if you’re breathing down my neck.”
I stood up and started clearing the table. Andrea had finished her pancakes, put her head on the table, and fallen sound asleep.
It was startling to see such a self-possessed person off-guard. I began rinsing the dishes and loading the dishwasher as quietly as I could. Calvin, glancing over at Andrea, stage-whispered, “Get over here, Maggie, and check this out.”
I wiped my hands, slung the dishtowel over my shoulder and sat down. There, on the screen, I saw a short list of movies.
“I went with your assumption, that it’s something set in Mali. Could be just part of the word at the end, like something in Malice or Malicious, but it looks as if there’s enough unburnt cardboard at the end of the word that Mali is the whole word. So, check out the list of titles.”
I scanned them quickly. “Here it is,” I said. “Mitzvah in Mali.”
“Fine,” said Michael. “Let’s say that’s the title of this old VHS tape that’s burned to a crisp. Who cares?”
I got up from the table and began pacing around the kitchen. Andrea had started to stir. She sat up and looked around, bewildered. “What’s going on?”
“Maggie is having a completely private epiphany,” said Calvin. “We don’t know what she’s excited about, but her little motor is racing.”
“Michael,” I said, ignoring Calvin, “remember your students’ review of the case?”
“Sort of,” said Michael. “Highlights, I guess.”
“Do you remember Gus and Ivory’s alibi? What they said they were doing at the time of the murder?”
“Seeing some obscure movie out in the Sunset.”
“Exactly! Some obscure movie about a West African musician who comes to New York and starts playing in a klezmer band, and as a result, converts to Judaism.”
“Mitzvah in Mali,” said Andrea, opening her eyes, and trying the title out.
“And, if I remember why that alibi was so persuasive, it was because it was some independent flick that was only playing that night at one of those crummy, old, independent art houses out in the Sunset. And Ivory and Gus both recalled very specific pieces of the plot and shots and everything, according to Moon. But, nobody ever wondered if they might have seen it on videotape and known so many details for that reason. But look,” I pointed at the screen. “They owned the movie! Of course, they had recall.”
“Hold on, Maggie,” said Andrea. “There was also a corroborating alibi. Provided by a cop.”
“Are you suggesting that Gus and Ivory lied about being at the movie?” asked Michael. “What about the police officer? What reason would he have to lie?”
“None,” I said. “But maybe he was wrong. I’d like to know how specifically he identified them. And there’s something else…”
“I think I know where you’re going,” said Andrea, putting her hand flat on the table. “Maybe Ivory didn’t offer the alibi at all.”
“That’s right,” I said slowly. “Gus provided the alibi. Ivory had a stroke around the time Travis was arrested. She admits her memory was vague about that period, and that’s what she said during the investigation. What if…” I stopped. “Well, wait, we don’t know when she was questioned. If she’d had a stroke, the cops probably would have waited to question her until after she’d recovered a little bit.”
“Which would have given Gus time to plant the idea in her head,” said Calvin. “And remind her about the movie. Since they’d already seen it, she’d just have to remember a little something about a film she’d already seen. But why?”
“Did Gus think Ivory knew something? Was he protecting her?” suggested Andrea.
“Hold on, my friends,” said Michael. “Lots of speculation going on here. This may be simply a coincidence. Maybe they were at the movie that night and they loved it so much, they bought a copy to keep.”
“Maybe,” I said doubtfully. “But that would have meant they bought it within the last few years, and why would it be in VHS format? I think they already had it. Which means…”
“Not much,” said Michael.
“It could mean,” I hesitated, not liking to think about what one possibility might be, “Ivory killed Grace.”
Andrea shook her head. “That seems impossible.”
“Everybody’s capable of murder,” said Michael.
“Say she did. Say she really didn’t like her precious son screwing around with a married woman,” pressed Calvin. “Maybe that’s what precipitated the stroke. And Gus was covering for her.”
“I don’t like Ivory for the murder,” I said.
Michael rolled his eyes. “You don’t like Ivory for the murder?” he mimicked me. “Who are you, little Ms. Cold Case?”
I ignored him. “Somebody needs to find out if something like committing a murder can bring on a stroke.” I got up and paced around the kitchen. “We need a doctor in the house,” I said. “Why doesn’t Anya invite that nice Dr. Bollywood to sleep over more often?”
“Because you’ve told her they can’t have ‘sleepover’ dates with the kids in the house. They have to wait ’til the kids are on a sleepover at a friend’s house or we’re all out of town,” Michael reminded me. “Or they have to go to his house.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Let his parents worry about them.”
“We don’t need a doctor,” said Calvin. “We’ve got WebMD. Give me a minute.”
“If you insist on speculating,” said Michael, “isn’t Gus the other possibility?”
>
“But why?” I protested. “He barely knew Grace.” And suddenly a little real-life movie clip flashed into my mind. “What about Gus’s daughter? Ginger?”
Andrea looked puzzled. “Ginger? Grace was her best friend. I don’t get that at all.”
“Well, it’s possible. Maybe Grace and Ginger’s husband had something going on over at the Crimson Club, and Ginger got pissed. But that’s not what I meant. Maybe Gus did it, because Ginger gave him a motive to get rid of Grace.”
“I don’t get it,” said Calvin. “What motive?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. But I’ve watched Gus with Ginger. He dotes on that girl and he’s so proud of how she turned out. Maybe he got wind of what was going on at the Crimson Club and thought Grace was corrupting his little princess.”
Andrea sighed. “Seems pretty farfetched to me. Gus hardly strikes me as an overprotective father. Didn’t he let someone else raise Ginger?”
“And maybe that’s why he’s so protective now,” I argued.
“Bingo,” said Calvin, turning his laptop around so we all could read about trauma-induced stroke, complete with information on how extreme emotions—sadness or anger—could cause blood vessels to narrow. “Wow, look at this,” said Calvin, pointing to the screen. “Some Italians did some work on upticks in stroke, post–September 11.”
Andrea yawned and put her head down again. “I know you may be having some kind of breakthrough here, Maggie,” she said. “But I have to go home and get some real sleep, on an actual bed, instead of your kitchen table.”
“Excellent idea,” said Michael. “An excellent idea all around. We can all get some sleep, except for Maggie who’s masquerading as a soccer mom this afternoon.” He looked at the kitchen clock. “Better get cracking, cara. Slice up those oranges and gather the troops.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, distracted. “But what do we do next?”
“Prudent people would call John Moon,” said Michael.
“Right,” I said, pulling oranges onto the cutting board.
“He’ll know the details of Ivory and Gus’s alibi for that night.” I whacked the first orange in half, then in quarters. “Like how is it that the cop actually identified them? And how specifically? The report says he was struck by what a ‘silver fox’ Ivory was. There are lots of women who could be described that way.”
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