by Liz Bradbury
You never see a team of young social workers who all just recently shaved their heads. Just saying.
Sergeant Ed O’Brien said, “Maggie thinks he didn’t do it. I’m not so sure. I think we should hold him. Maggie, go ahead on your take...”
I pointed out something they were all still ignoring, that Nora Hasan had seen Red empty-handed when the second shot was fired and so had I. Since there was no evidence, they couldn’t hold him on a murder charge. All Red could say about Frankie’s murder was that someone standing in a dark crypt shot him. He wasn’t even sure where the crypt was, just that it was near some bushes. I told them about Frankie’s relationship to the home invasion crew of bogus water company workers, too.
Sgt. Marc Freligh said, “Forget about either Cue or Willie doing the shooting; they were both in custody at the time it happened. That’s thanks to Maggie, by the way.”
“But they’re out now. One of them could have been driving the white van that rammed Maggie,” suggested Tito Rodriguez, one of my old partners from vice squad.
“Maybe, but where would those guys get a van like that?”
“Boosted it?” said Tito.
“Why ram us though?”
“Maybe they wanted the stuff Frankie was selling....”
I thought about this, but it seemed unlikely that they’d even known about the merchandise Frankie was selling. Unless Frankie had stolen it from them and not told Red that. Hmmm, that was an idea.
“Might there be something else hidden in the van that they wanted? Money, drugs, jewelry from one of their home invasions?” asked Marc. He went ahead and assigned two officers to search it carefully.
That was more likely. But it still seemed wrong to me.
I’d given the police my information. I felt like I was done there. Earlier in the day, I’d dropped Kathryn off at the loft on the way to the police station.
Before I drove away, Kathryn had said, “I know you have to work, but I have quite a buzz going. I’d hate to waste it.” I could see the telltale glow of adrenalin surge in her expression. The last thing I’d wanted to do was leave her to take Red in, especially because this was supposed to be a day we spent together.
Dealing with Red at the police station had stretched from the afternoon into the evening. I ached each time I looked at my watch and remembered that last searing glance Kathryn had sent my way.
“Maggie,” said Ed, “you’re going to have to go through this stuff with the evidence clerk to catalog it now. These old things are probably pretty valuable and we don’t even know what half of them are called.”
“Ed, that’ll take hours,” I sighed.
Ed smirked. “All you have to do is tell us what the stuff is called so we can look it up. What, you have some better place to be?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
*******
It had taken hours to catalog the impounded antiques Frankie had found. The police wanted exact values for all thirty-five items. Value determines both the severity and the punishment of a property crime and accurate descriptions are required in identification of ownership. The Austrian vase with its Russian enamel decoration that Red had lobbed at me, for example, was worth about $5000.
It was nearly 9:30 p.m. by the time I got back home.
I took the steps two at a time and fairly burst through the main doors of the loft when I got to the third floor. Not being very cool here, detective.
Kathryn wasn’t there, though her blue and white mini Cooper was in the small parking lot. I could smell her perfume, but the whole place had begun to smell faintly of her all the time. I put my Beretta away in the gun safe and then went into the bedroom. No Kathryn in there, or the laundry room, or bathroom either.
I was figuring she may have gone for a walk when I heard the door at the top of the spiral staircase open. She came down the steps and crossed the room to the counter in the kitchen area. She had in her iPod earplugs so she didn’t notice me. I could faintly hear the driving rhythm of the Gypsy Kings. A hot dance tune was making her hips sway. She went through the mail on the counter, putting things addressed to her in a separate pile.
I came up behind her, pressed against her, and kissed her neck.
“Oh, are you still here?” she said. “You better get going before my girlfriend gets back.”
I laughed. “Uh huh, very funny. Well, I deserve that for leaving you alone all day.”
She reached up a hand and stroked the side of my face to my throat.
I turned her around and lifted her up to the countertop.
“Pay attention to me now,” she said.
“Do you want to go to bed?” I asked in low voice.
“As a matter of fact, I do, but I think you should have dinner first and tell me everything that happened after you dropped me off. I’m Della Street, remember? Shall I fix you something to eat? Do you have more work to do or can I have you all to myself now?”
I kissed her again and smiled. “I had something to eat at the station. Um, I just have to make a few notes in my computer, and I have to charge my phone. It ran down.”
“I know. I tried to call you and it went right to voice mail. Oh, and Lois Henshaw tried to call you. She said she’s tried six times!”
“She said? Did she call you?”
“Indeed she did. She wants you to call her. She sounded desperate.”
“I’d better call. I pulled out my little Mac and noted the details about Red in chronological order as I tried Lois Henshaw’s number.
“There’s no answer at the Henshaw residence,” I said typing.
When I was done with the notes I told Kathryn everything that happened at the police station as I had a cup of coffee. She asked questions about procedure and the evidence impound.
“Maggie, are you sure about me working with you? If you don’t want me to, then skip the formal hiring and we’ll pretend I never asked.”
“You’re already hired. I checked with the insurance company, added your name to the rider, filled out the W-2 papers, and put you on the payroll as an intern. All done while I was waiting around the police station. You’ll have to sign a few papers. By the way, interns only get out-of-pocket reimbursement.”
“I promise not to get in your way. This is really just so we can talk about things and keep them confidential. If we were straight... we could have... uh.”
I knew what she was thinking. If we were straight and legally married, we would have spousal immunity if either one of us was subpoenaed. Same-sex couples lose out on that right, federally and locally, because even same-sex marriages from marriage equality states like Connecticut aren’t recognized in Pennsylvania and no same-sex marriages are recognized by the federal government. Of course... we aren’t at that stage, not yet anyway.
I said, “We haven’t had a chance to talk about Victoria Snow’s papers.”
“Oh yes. Well, the Charlotte Cushman part is so frank! I would never have imagined that a thirty-year-old Victorian Era woman would have had the boldness to write down that graphic story even in her private journal. If someone had found it, I suppose terrible things could have happened to her. Still I’ve read that more than one of Charlotte Cushman’s young devotees wrote her letters like that and she responded in kind. She got those women to promise to burn the letters, but of course they didn’t and some still survive.”
“So did Victoria and Evangeline hook up, or did Evangeline stay true to her rich fiance, Merganser Hunterdon?”
“I only had an hour and a half with the papers, but I managed to look everything over. There’s nothing further about their relationship anywhere in the file. Whether her courage held up once she got to Fenchester or if she just had to be content to love Evangeline from afar is still a mystery.”
“But I want to know whether she made that little sculpture while looking at that lovely woman in all her natural glory, or if Victoria just used her imagination.”
“I do too. But this journal doesn’t tell us. Anyway, I
’m having the first volume of the journal made into a digital file.”
“Uh huh, I heard about the young woman who is devoted to you in the media department.”
“Devoted? I wouldn’t say... Well,” Kathryn paused to consider, then she smiled a little.
“And you’re concerned about my fidelity?” I laughed.
“I’m sure she’s just concerned about adding to her resume.”
“Yeah, another notch on her resume.”
Kathryn smirked. “But seriously, surely that journal is the first book of a set. Where are the others? There’s so little historical information about Victoria’s personal life, and she lived right here in Fenchester!”
“Well, it’s a big archive. Maybe there are more files down there. How many miles does Irwin College say it is?”
“Not as big as some huge systems. The New York Library has eighty-eight miles of stacks. Bryant Park Library in Manhattan has over forty miles. Irwin’s is more like twenty.”
I stared at her. “Twenty miles of stacks? That would reach to downtown Wassailberg!”
“The stacks connect underground to the old library buildings as well, all the way to College Street. Expanding the stacks is really why they had to build the new Wellington Library ten years ago.”
I imagined a cross-cut of the campus showing both above and below. Like a drawing of a tree showing both its branch and root systems.
“If we want the answer to the fruition of Victoria’s and Evangeline’s romance we may have to search for it.”
“You could ask Isabella Santiago to help you find it. Did you see her while you were there?”
“I was hypersensitive, darting my eyes up every few minutes just to catch a glimpse of her. I didn’t see her, though.”
“Did you ask Amanda about her?”
Kathryn nodded. “I did. I called her. I didn’t exactly ask if Isabella is alive. I just asked Amanda to tell me about her and she said rather calmly that she has spoken to Isabella several times and was lucky to have her help. When I asked her if she knew anything else about her, Amanda told me, ‘Dr. Santiago was very private, so I find further research in this area is better left undone.’”
“Left undone?”
“Really Maggie, we may just have to leave this alone. What’s that line from MacBeth? Life’s but a walking shadow.”
“Why is it that Shakespeare keeps coming up? I feel like I hear it everywhere these days.”
“Well, Victoria’s journal certainly shows that Charlotte Cushman peppered her seductions with it. And Gabe Carbondale. And Nora!”
“Yes, Nora, I’d like to mention once again that though Nora’s flirty with everyone, she’s certainly in your devotional harem. Her voice hushes when she speaks of you. It’s enough to make me into a green-eyed monster.”
Kathryn laughed. “Green-eyed monster that was coined by Shakespeare, too. It’s from Othello. Iago says:
O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;
It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock
The meat it feeds on; that cuckold lives in bliss
Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger;
But, O, what damned minutes tells he o’er
Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves!”
Kathryn thought for a moment. “But, maybe Portia uses it better in The Merchant of Venice when she says:
How all the other passions fleet to air,
As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair,
And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy! O love,
Be moderate; allay thy ecstasy,
In measure rein thy joy; scant this excess.
I feel too much thy blessing: make it less,
For fear I surfeit.”
“Kathryn, do you fear surfeit? I thought you were a fan of passion.”
“I am indeed. So I’ll have to find another way to rein in doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair.” Kathryn found something in her shoulder bag and brought it over to the table. It was a paper sack.
She said, “In pre-celebration of your birthday, I got you an early present from the antique market this morning, before all the excitement began. This is just one in a series of surprises I have for you. Oh, and Farrel and Jessie want to have a little dinner party for you on Friday evening.”
“If it doesn’t get in the way of your plans.”
“I believe I can work around it,” she said in a low voice.
Inside the bag was a small rubber mold for the kind of clay that always stays soft until you fire it in a kitchen oven. There was also a set of wooden clay tools.
Kathryn said, “Can you use that clay I gave you before in this?”
“Yes!” I went to a drawer in the kitchen and pulled out the set of small blocks of clay. I took the porcelain-colored one back to the table and began to knead it to make it soft.
Kathryn watched me, her eyes bright, her breathing deep. I pressed the ball of clay into the flexible mold and then popped the face out. It was detailed but not an expression I would choose. So I tore open the clay tools and began to reform the face.
After a few moments I looked up at her thinking at first that it would be fun to make this face look like Kathryn. Then I realized I’d been absorbed in this task for several minutes.
I said, “I’m sorry. I’m not paying attention to you. But you know what art supplies do to me!”
“Yes, they make you excited. I was counting on that.”
“It’s a science experiment?”
“In a way. But also the little mold reminded me of those decorated faces that Victoria made. I like to watch you. May we talk while you work?”
“Yes, always, but I think I’d like to work on something else now.” I’d noticed Kathryn’s shirt was open an extra button and it was giving me a different kind of artistic impulse that I didn’t want to waste.
“Which do you think is more life affirming? Making love or falling asleep in each other’s arms?” I asked.
“Does this have to be an either or decision?”
“No, it doesn’t. You can also select all of the above.”
The doorbell rang.
“Rats,” said Kathryn. “Maybe whoever it is will just go away.”
The bell rang again, continuously for the next twenty seconds. I knew who it was. “Betcha a backrub it’s Lois Henshaw,” I sighed.
“Lois is your client. If it is she, you must talk to her.” Kathryn looked at her watch. “My dear, getting up before 5 a.m. has taken its toll on me. I’m going to have to go to bed. But I don’t have any obligations tomorrow, so I’m available for a breakfast date.”
“Will you be available for a pre-breakfast date?”
“Mmmmm, yes, even better.”
*******
“It’s Samson. He hasn’t come home for almost two days,” said Lois.
I had let Lois Henshaw into the building and taken her to my office, because I was afraid if I took her up to the loft, I’d never get her out of it. She was wearing a goofy hat. It was actually in the shape of Goofy the Dog’s head. She lifted it off by the ear-flap ears and plopped it on my desk. It stared at us as we talked.
“Lois, isn’t the big problem between you and Samson that you never know where he is?”
“No, no, no, au contraire. Like I told you before Maggie, I always know where he is. See, he has one of those GPS things on his phone.”
“You mean you put one of those GPS things on his phone... Does he know?”
“About the GPS? Well not exactly. See, I’m of the what you don’t know won’t hurt you school of thought.”
“Uh, no, if you were really of that school, you wouldn’t have hired me.”
Lois’s brows knit together in profound concentration. Finally she said, “I love him, Maggie. I’ve never loved anyone else. He’s my everything.”
“OK, so....”
“So, the GPS says he’s in the cemetery and he hasn’t moved. I even went to look for him, but he’s
not there. He disappeared and I’m very worried about him. I think something has happened to him.”
“Maybe he went for a walk in there and lost it or something.”
“Maggie, you said you’d find out about him. Right now I’d settle for you just finding him. I have a bad feeling about this. It’s killing me.”
It was nearly midnight, and my patience had worn thin, no thanks to unquenched randiness and lack of sleep. I wanted to yell at Lois that maybe Samson was tired of a relationship that included twenty-four hour satellite tracking. But one look at her face showed me that would have crushed her. Clearly she really did love him, and sometimes love makes people do desperate things. Right now, Lois Henshaw looked as desperate as a teenaged tech addict in a power failure.
“Lois, I did talk to Samson and he said he would clear this up in a few more days. He asked me not to tell you any more than that. But I’m working for you, so I’ll tell you if you want.”
“Yes, tell. No, don’t. Yes... wait do, no... No don’t tell me, no, I’d rather hear it from him... But... he’s never been gone this long.”
“Maybe he went away for a few days to figure things out.” This might really be true, but I also wondered if Samson had just taken the chicken’s way out and left town or if maybe he’d finally found Suzanne Carbondale and his dreams had actually come true. Either way, he was really being a weasel about Lois.
I added softly, “Look, I’ll check around for him in the morning. Don’t worry. Go home now and I’ll call you tomorrow.”