by Liz Bradbury
Buster got up and went into the laundry room, which also served as the back vestibule. He barked.
“What?” I asked.
He looked at me, tilted his head, then swung his doggy butt around knocking over a stack of cardboard boxes. I felt a gust of cold air as he went out his dog door into the fenced backyard.
The kitchen was in order, but my sketch and the other framed art pieces were gone from the wall. This room had also been de-Suzanned.
Buster padded back in and settled in the middle of the floor. I filled his food bowl in the laundry room and picked up the cardboard boxes his tree-branch-sized tail had spilled. One box’s lid had come off. In it I spied my framed sketch, the Matisse collage print, some of Suzanne’s kitchen tools. Nothing she really needed. Gabe had just packed up what she’d left and pushed it out of sight, if not completely out of mind.
Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were the best I could do. I found a tray and carried the food and a bottle of beer into the living room.
I sat down and asked him to go over the shooting one more time. He told me the same story.
“You said you wanted to talk to me about something? What was it?” I asked. Maybe it was that he was still frightened or needed me to make him a sandwich.
“Oh, well, just that this shooting makes crime in the cemetery a foregone conclusion. And so I won’t be...”
“You won’t be paying me any more. I get it.”
Chapter 5
I went home to the loft.
This small factory building was payment for what turned out to be a very dangerous job. At the time real estate was low, and the value of a quarter-block-long factory building in a residential area was pretty scant. Still it was a fascinating, mostly raw space, so I dove in.
I’d put a tool-belt-load of sweat equity into making the loft livable. The bright, comfortable space was mostly one big high-ceilinged room that served as a living and dining room with a fancy open kitchen on one side. There were two bedrooms—a bigger one where Kathryn and I slept and a smaller one for guests. There was also a fabulous master bathroom, a well-designed laundry room, and a smaller bathroom next to the guest room. The huge floor-to-ceiling windows offered panoramic views of the Mews and the city beyond.
On the top floor of the building, which is reached via a spiral staircase in the loft’s living area or by the main stairs or freight elevator in the hall, is a large open space roughly divided into four quarters: an extensive gym for working out, an art studio so as not to let my art school education go to waste, a storage area, and a large corner that was rapidly becoming a two-story office for Kathryn.
I enjoy it all, but right now it felt empty. So I went down to the second floor office of my step-sister Sara and her law partner Emma Strong.
Attorney Sara Martinez was sitting at her desk in her office, flipping the pages of a bound brief. Her dark chocolate hair was drawn back in a pony tail. Her skin tones looked even and healthy as always. She was stylishly dressed for work, but still seemed comfortable.
I’m such a contrast to my younger sisters Sara and Rosa. With light brown hair and green eyes, my skin is so pale white that at the beach I have to steep in 100 sun block. Kathryn and I have that in common, which made our choice to vacation in Northern Florida in January, where the temperatures are moderate and sunny days are short, a perfect one.
Sara said without looking up, “Buenas tardes, querida hermana.”
“¿Quieres ir a la Cocina Thai a cenar? Estoy loca del hambre.”
“¿Dónde está tu novia habañera? ¿Por qué ella no come contigo? ¿La estas tratando bien o es que ella está disponible ahora? ¡Dame su número y yo le mostrare un buen tiempo!”
Sara looked up and wiggled her eyebrows but then stared at me. “¿Qué paso?” she asked me seriously.[1]
My poker face has served me well in the detective trade, but Sara has always been able to tell when things were wrong with me. When her mother married my father, we became instant friends, even though she was younger. She’d decided to teach me Spanish, and my new stepmother Juana agreed wholeheartedly. I committed to the hilarious lessons and soon was able to share secrets with my new family that my sweet but seemingly befuddled father couldn’t understand.
Knowing something that a grownup didn’t know was enormously attractive to a child who’d felt her life was out of her control. It wasn’t so many years later that I realized my father was faking his inability to understand us for my sake. Which made me love him and miss him all the more, once he was gone.
In those days, when something was heavy on my mind, Sara could tell. Just as she could tell now.
“What is it?” she asked more softly.
“Someone was shot in the cemetery today. I was there,” I said simply. “He died.”
“Did you shoot him?”
“No, but I couldn’t save him.”
“You can’t save everyone, querida,” said Sara softly.
*******
“Forget the menu ladies. We have a curry to die for and fresh roast pork. And spring rolls, just made. Be right back.”
We handed back the menus and gave over our appetites to Mrs. Sakda. It was 6 p.m. Sara and I sat across from each other in a booth at Thai Kitchen, just a few doors from our offices.
“I love this place,” I said to Sara. I loved that the family who ran it knew us and made us special things. I loved that it was in my neighborhood. I even loved that Mrs. Sakda and the network of women in the Mews had gossip honed to a fine art.
“Tell me the rest of what happened at the cemetery. Were there other people there?” said Sara.
I filled her in on all the players, then added, “And there was a witness. The police talked to her.”
“How did Carbondale take it?” asked Sara.
“Fell to his knees, screamed like a macaw, barfed a week’s groceries.”
“No way he could have done it?”
I shook my head. “No gun. Not the correct angle. And his squealing like a piglet was pretty convincing. He seemed genuinely flummoxed. He was too busy heaving his lunch and being scared witless. He’d really have to be a Shakespearian actor to feign those reactions.”
“Don’t say flummoxed. Real people don’t say flummoxed.”
“I do.”
“I know. You’ve done that since we were kids, and you’re getting worse. I think sleeping with an English professor is rubbing off on you. Wait, what were you and Kathryn doing in the cemetery?”
Before I could explain about the statues of Evangeline Fen, Sara exclaimed, “Oh my god, you were doing it! Sex in the cemetery? Was Charles Addams there to draw it?” Before I could confirm or deny, Sara paused to consider and then asked, “Was it fun?”
I laughed but didn’t bother to respond. Finally I said, “Well, it wasn’t fun after I heard the shot.”
We both thought about that for a moment. Finally Sara broke the silence. “Evie is leaving.”
“What! When? Why?” Evelyn Quaid had been their office manager since Sara and Emma set up their lawyering shop two years before I’d gotten the building. She was a bit scatter-brained, but very sweet and earnest.
“Her mother’s sick. Her father called from Pittsburgh. She’s leaving right away.”
“She could come back,” I suggested.
“I don’t think so. She’s already cleaned out her desk.”
“Huh,” I said taking it in. “We’ll have to advertise for someone new. Do interviews, train.”
“Yeah, it’s a pain, and Emma wants two people—an office manager and a paralegal for the law firm.”
Before I could calculate the added cost, Sara said, “We’ll pay the paralegal. You can split the manager with us like we did with Evie.”
“What if I need to use the paralegal for some cagey court angle?”
“We’ll see. Let’s talk about something else. We can worry about staff tomorrow. What about that witness you mentioned?”
“I’m going to interview her.
”
“How’re you going to find her?”
“I know where she lives.”
“How?”
“Followed her home.”
“Really?” Sara said wryly. “Pretty?”
“From what I could see.”
“And you are going to see her this evening? While your beautiful new squeeze is working?”
“I’m not after anyone else.”
“Actually, I wasn’t thinking about someone for you. I was thinking about someone for me.”
“Oh sure, like you’d just go on a blind date.”
“I would!”
“Pon farr?”
“Not exactly. It’s just that I’d rather play the field occasionally than spend all my days working the fields 24/7. So I’m throwing caution to the wind and carpeing the diem.”
“That’s what I said to myself in the cemetery and look where it got me.”
“Different situation, and you’ll be checking her out for me,” said Sara.
“OK, if she seems interesting and age appropriate, I’ll signal you.”
“I’ll take my food back to the office. I have to have this brief finished by 9:00 p.m.,” said Sara. “I just have a little more to do, and then I have to fax all the pages. Maggie, everything’s all right between you and Kathryn isn’t it?”
I told her honestly that we were having a wonderful time and I was sorely hoping to see Kathryn soon.
“I bet!” Sara winked at me and smiled.
Mrs. Sakda brought the food to our table herself, brimming with pride over the dishes she knew we’d love. The spring rolls were lightly fried and stuffed with fresh vegetables with a hint of shrimp and egg. I spooned a red curry stew over my bowl of whole grain rice. The delicately flavored sauce spoke of ginger, cilantro, and lemon grass. The chicken was perfectly cooked, slivers of fresh carrots and green beans added interesting color and texture, toasted almonds gave it all a rich crunch. Sara sniffed the wonderful aroma, filled up some take-out boxes and left to finish her work.
*******
“You’re a detective, really?” asked the young woman answering the door. She spoke with a light Scottish accent as she eyed my investigator’s ID, then she glanced over my shoulder into the darkness. “And a wee bit of a night owl. Well, come in then. It’s a snell night.”
After dinner I’d walked up Washington Street to the corner of 13th and rang the bell for apartment number one, and she’d let me into the tiny place.
She had a pleasant, interesting face. Very white smooth skin, alert dark eyes, dramatic features and a head of short curly black hair.
“Did I see you at the cemetery when I was keeking through the fence? When the place was hoaching with police? Bit of a shock. Let’s sit down, shall we?” She pointed to a couch that was covered with a patterned bed sheet. I took out my small laptop.
“Let’s start with your name.”
“I have a long series of first names, which ends with Eleanora, so Nora is fine.”
“Last name?”
“Hasan.”
“Student at Irwin?” I asked conversationally.
“A grad student.” She considered me with a wary look. “Not from INS, are you?” I shook my head. She relaxed a little.
“You’re from Scotland?”
“Well, no,” she said simply. It sounded a little bit like nae. “Actually, I grew up in Morocco. My mum is from Scotland.” There was clarity in her accent, precision and melody, but with a slight undertone of discontent.
“What are you studying?” I sat back for what I hoped would be a long, detailed explanation in a Highland lilt.
“Theatre History From a Feminist Perspective. I’m on an international fellowship. And now I’m in Fenchester.” She sighed, as if she’d told this to dozens of people who hadn’t cared very much. She added, a bit mechanically, “I’m working on a thesis on women in the theatre, with a focus on those who played male Shakespearean parts in the 19th century.”
“Charlotte Cushman?” I suggested. “I was just talking abut her with some friends.”
“Yes, oh my, brilliant! How do you ken her?” And then Nora Hasan smiled, and her interesting face became radiantly beautiful. It was kind of startling. My artist’s soul gasped inwardly. It took me a moment to recover.
Finally I laughed. “I studied Charlotte Cushman, along with the women artists who lived in her house in Rome—Emma Stebbins, Edmonia Lewis, Victoria Willomere Snow—when I was in art school. I found their stories so interesting.” I paused thinking it was funny that Victoria Snow kept popping up. Nora nodded without responding so I carried on. “Um... so you grew up in Morocco? And you learned English from your mother? Did you ever live in Scotland?”
“No, Mum’s living in Scotland now. She just moved there a wee bit after I came to the States. I’m going to have a cup of tea. Fancy some?” she said, standing up. She smiled again, but I was ready for it this time.
Now I understood why her accent was so charmingly Old World, sort of like dialog from a British mystery. Nora was using the vocabulary and inflection of a middle-aged woman who’d grown up in Scotland decades before, but she’d never actually been there herself.
Nora moved to the kitchen area. From what I could see through a half-open door, the bedroom barely had space for a twin mattress. The bow window that took up most of the apartment’s front wall was uncurtained. Darkness made the windows black like Nora’s eyes. The window glass reflected the warm apartment. All I could see through it was a glowing row of streetlights.
Nora reached for a canister of tea bags from the cupboard. Her wooly blue sweater had a wide plunging neckline that showed an expanse of smooth shoulder and throat.
I thought to myself, She must be cold in that low neckline. Then I realized that this was an atypical reaction for me when regarding low cut sweaters on other attractive women. My inner voice repeated, Other attractive women. Other than Kathryn? Yes, other than Kathryn... Huh!
As much fun as having tea with a pretty grad student should have been, all I could think about was Kathryn’s brief suggestion that she might sneak out of her retreat to come home around ten. But it was still before eight. I didn’t need to rush this interview, though I did want to speed up the clock.
Nora put two cups of water in a tiny microwave and pressed Start. “I know you’re supposed to boil tea water, but I’m a wee bit lazy,” she said.
“Tell me what you saw at the cemetery.”
Nora Hasan sighed and then became surprisingly confidential. “Since you came chappin’ at my door, I think you should have to share a bit of my misery. You see, I was set to have a rather hot date. It’s been yonks since... but I got stood up, which has me low.” She automatically wrapped the tea bag string around the bowl of the spoon and the bag, squeezing the last few drops into her cup. A dimple appeared in her cheek. She added, “And thereby hangs a tale.”
“I’m sorry your date didn’t show. I hate when that happens.”
She rewarded me with another smile, saying, “A ministering angel shall my sister be. Really you’re just what I need, a mate I can tell my troubles to. Do you mind?”
I shook my head to show I didn’t mind and smiled.
She said, “I was not paying attention when you showed me your card. What was your name again?”
“I have a set of first names too. Mehitabel Arrabella Gale, but Maggie is fine.”
“I don’t ken that I’ve ever heard those names before. How did that all come about?”
I briefly explained and she listened intently, asking a couple of questions to help the story along.
“Well then, Maggie... em... here’s my little yarn. You see, I was hoping for a nice dinner and a wee bit more than pudding. Oh dear, I tend to wear my heart upon my sleeve. I suppose that’s what put my date off?” Nora went on with the story while I listened and nodded encouragement.
It didn’t take Nora long to tell her cryptic but standard tale that began with flirting and ended with nothing,
not even a phone call. When she finished, it was clear she felt better having told it, but not clear whether she was talking about a male or female antagonist.
It doesn’t take a seasoned detective to know that straight people very rarely hesitate to identify themselves as straight. That’s why being in the closet never really protects you from someone who wants to pry. A straight person would never avoid gender pronouns when talking about a date. Nora had been jilted by a woman but was a little uncomfortable being completely honest. Not really surprising considering being Gay is illegal in Morocco. The threat of fifteen years in prison would make anyone reticent.
I smiled and said, “She should at least have called.”
“Well, now, you are a detective, aren’t you,” she said with her head tilted to the side.
I shrugged gently. “About the shooting...”
“Fair enough. All right then. I went along 10th Street to the corner market at 10th and Fen. When I came out, I went back up Fen. Then I heard something of a pop. Screwed my courage to the sticking place and skelped right up to the bars of the fence to keek through the trees. I heard a wee girl scream. I could see the statue of the woman in the shroud. Very white it is. Like a wraith. Then I saw someone come from the left into view. When I heard another pop, he froze and turned round in all directions. He was wearing a dark red hooded jumper and denim jeans. He had his back to me so I couldn’t see his face, but he was a ginger. Then he flipped up his hood, covering his hair.
“Are you sure it was a man?”
“Hmmm, it’s my impression. Might have been a woman, but I doot it.” She sat considering for a moment then went on, “I could see beyond him. Farther away, there was a large splash of blue on the ground. The soldier said it was a dead man. I saw the person in the maroon jumper stop and look at the blue coat and then he turned and ran behind some bushes. Then I saw a man farther back, kneeling on the ground, boaking like a sick cat.”
Nora took a sip of tea and considered. “In a tic, police sirens. I saw them drive up Fen Street. Then running. And in a wee moment I saw you talking to a man in a mac. I thought the game’s afoot, so I went round to the gate to give my bit to the police.”