Cat on a Hyacinth Hunt
Page 16
Oy, boy. What a bunch of gobbledygook.
'The magician pulls a bouquet of . . . hyacinth from a long, flowing sleeve."
I have never seen Mr. Max Kinsella in long, flowing sleeves, but then I have never seen him perform professionally. Only as an amateur, and very amorous indeed, on Miss Temple Barr's living room sofa and more recently on her California queen-size bed (which allows me plenty of room at the foot to stretch out). It does occur to me, with a wince, that the reason Miss Temple has one of these extra-long but not excessively wide beds is because of her once (and possibly future) relationship with the attenuated Mr. Max. I am ashamed to admit that yours truly may be benefiting from being an afterthought.
"Beware the sorcerer, Louie! Beware the dead man whose pale face rises wreathed in hyacinth blossom. Beware she who bears thorns. Beware the alchemist! I see dying petals on a whirlpool. I see blue eyes. Not mine. Beware, Louie, beware."
Ho-hum. Ho-omm. More vague predilections. I should have known better than to come to Karma for real enlightenment. I see my only course is to consult my encyclopedic stooge. Just show me the exit, honey, and I will be outa this joint and back in the real world.
"I see you are as blind as always, Louie. Go. Seek your fate. The patio and the palm tree await."
Just to show her, I crack the French door with two precisely placed bounds. The lever snaps open. I jump up and depress it. The door pops ajar, and I am out in the crisp winter air, inhaling a scent of... polyurethane. Trust Miss Electra's patio furniture to clear a guy's head of metaphysical mumbo-jumbo.
I leap to the overweening palm tree and then ratchet down its length, claws out. We are talking murder most foul here. We are talking death by dread. We are talking much bigger stuff than a few fishy smells on the whiskers of a Sacred Cat of Burma!
There is one place that can answer all my questions: the Thrill 'n' Quill bookstore, overseen by its tiresome mascot, a feline who is long on book-learning and short on sense. I head off down the street, trying to figure out how I will roust Ingram after hours.
Chapter 25
Relativity
Matt was glad that Bennie was his front man with ConTact. He had five precious days off He didn't care what Bennie told them; he didn't care if he was supposed to have been mugged into a bloody pulp. He needed this time to deal with Effinger's death.
And one thing he couldn't put off much longer. He dialed Chicago.
The phone rang for a long time until his mother, breathless, answered.
"Matt!" She sounded relieved that it was him. "I was out."
"You were out?" He shouldn't have sounded so shocked.
"Well, I'd promised to go. Otherwise I would have been here.
"Did you call earlier?"
"No, Mom. And I'm glad you were out. Can I ask where?"
"Oh. That Krys. She wanted to see a movie for the third time and no one else would go with her. Harrison Ford. I haven't been to a movie theater in years. They're so loud."
"I wouldn't know. I haven't been to a movie theater in years myself."
"Well, no wonder. It's all so ... violent. And the trailers. So ... immoral."
"Probably. Did you have a good time?"
"Well, the audience was very noisy, not like when I was a girl. Then, it was like you were in church."
"So the outing was a bust, huh?"
"Not . . . exactly. It's like a video game, that's what it is. I've seen the boys playing those things. Bang, bang, bang. You've got to pay attention every minute. Harrison Ford. I don't see what the excitement's about. Now that Brad Pitt, maybe. You even, God forbid. But a young girl like that shouldn't fixate on such an old man."
"Mom, Ford's probably a little older than you."
"Oh. What did I say? An old man." But she laughed.
There was no easy segue into the next topic. Matt stepped into it flat-footed.
"I've got news."
"Oh?" The old wariness.
"Cliff is dead."
Silence.
"He was killed."
"By who?"
"I don't know." More silence. "Maybe me. Maybe by tracking him down, I brought him the wrong kind of attention."
"That's crazy, Matt. If he was killed, it was because he drove someone beyond endurance.
Not. . . you?"
"Not me. I'm past that. I don't need that. I'm almost sorry he's gone, because I'll never have a chance to prove how much I'm beyond him now."
"That's what I was trying to tell you when you came home. I got beyond him a long time ago.
Maybe I'm bitter, but I'm not... trapped with him in the past. Okay?"
"Okay. I love you, Mom."
"Oh, Matt. You know . .."
That's as close as she could ever come.
"It was a pretty good movie," she conceded. "Krys isn't so bad. Maybe Harrison Ford isn't either. So don't spend time worrying about. . . him. He's gone. He's been gone a long time."
"Yeah. Thanks. Bye."
Matt hung up, thanking heaven for banal conversations. For starch, for fattening filler that avoided the meat of the matter. Sometimes evasion was the best coping skill.
********************
So when the phone rang twenty minutes later while he was reading Thomas Mann on his new red sofa, under the light of his new floor lamp, he thought maybe his mother was calling back with something more to say.
"Molina," she said, sounding like a mother superior.
"Oh. Isn't it. . . after hours?"
"I don't think cops--and priests-- have hours. So. What do you want to do with the body?"
"Body?"
"We got lucky; no pileup at autopsy central. The medical examiner's ready to release it to the next of kin."
"Carmen--"
"Lieutenant Molina. This is a murder case, Mr. Devine. You are a suspect."
"Oh--"
"Yes?"
"You're saying it's up to me to bury the body. Haven't you people got a potter's field or something?"
"Sure 'we people' do. It's called the county. Wooden crate et cetera. That's okay with you, it's okay with us."
"Wait. Ah. Suppose I think it over ... what does it involve? A funeral home, some kind of casket?"
"Conscience. My best weapon."
"I know. But I just finished telling my mother about it. You got me at a bad time."
"What did you tell her?"
"Not much about how he died, since you didn't tell me. I told her I may have drawn the wrong person's attention by tracking him down."
"What did she say?"
"Not much."
"Well? I'm going out of my way on this."
"Why?"
"Because I figured you wouldn't have thought of it, and then you would have when it was too late. Conscience. A cop's best friend."
"Thanks. Who do I talk to if I decide to claim the body?"
"The ME's office. Don't thank me until this is over."
"Will it ever be?"
"It's my case, Devine. You better bet that it will be."
"That sounds like a threat."
"Only if you're guilty of something."
"You know I think I'm guilty of everything. What does that make me? A very unreliable source."
"No. It makes you more reliable than you know."
She hung up without farewells. He was beginning to realize that was because it wouldn't be over, until it was over.
So he made a call, one he'd been putting off.
He had an appointment so fast it was almost embarrassing: ten the next morning. It was one he both looked forward to, and dreaded. He was beginning to wonder if conflicting emotions could be addictive.
Finally, he called Temple and told her about Molina's amazingly considerate offer to return the dead departed to his custody for the good of his immortal soul.
Chapter 26
Buried in Cyberspace
From: Flack@neon.net
Date: 1/2/98 9:45 PM
Subject: Re: Roadkill
; Address: To Hattrick@ginjoint.net
Can you believe it? What Lady Copperhead has offered the recent Roadkill to his Poor Relative?
What is she up to? I mean, should Poor Relative have to pay for burying a rotten relative?
From: Hattrick@ginjoint.net
Date: 1/2/98 9:52 PM
Subject: Re: Roadkill
Address: ToFlack@neon.net
I hope you don't mean "rotten" literally. Of course the Lady Copperhead is just exerting pressure.
But this might not be a bad idea. Think about it.
From: Flack@neon.net
Date: 1/2/98 9:54 PM
Subject: Re: Roadkill
Address: To Hattrick@ginjoint.net
Poor Relative can't afford to be magnanimous in this maggot's case. And, yes, I do hope I mean
"rotten" literally.
From: Hattrick@ginjoint.net
Date: 1/2/98 9:58 PM
Subject: Re: Roadkill
Address: ToFlack@neon.net
No, but Hattrick can afford to be magnanimous. He can even spring for a nice announcement in the newspapers' obituary pages. What if we held a funeral and watched to see who came?
From: Flack@neon.net
Date: 1/2/98 10:03
Subject: Re: Roadkill
Address: To Hattrick@ginjoint.net
Nobody would come to watch that worm go to his long-delayed last reward. It would be a waste of money.
From: Hattrick@ginjoint.net
Date: 1/2/98 10:07 PM
Subject: Re: Roadkill
Address: To Flack@neon.net
Maybe. But it's my money. I say, let the games begin. Tell Poor Relative it's on the house.
From: Flack@neon.net
Date: 1/2/98 10:11 PM
Subject: Re: Roadkill
Address: To Hattrick@ginjoint.net
Some consolation! Poor Relative would have to put up with seeing the worm treated like a real human being, and he would hate being indebted to you.
From: Hattrick@ginjoint.net
Date: 1/2/98 10:14 PM
Subject: Re: Roadkill
Address: To Flack@neon.net
He need never know if you come up with an inventive story. Shouldn't you be in bed with someone?
From: Flack@neon.net
Date: 1/2/98 10:20 PM
Subject: Re: Roadkill
Address: To Hattrick@ginjoint.net
I am. He has shiny dark hair, big green eyes and a world-class tail. Nighty-night.
Chapter 27
Remembrance of Things Passed Up
The cab dropped Matt at his ten o'clock appointment at five to the hour.
Knowing he was the first customer of the day, he dawdled his way to the front door. The first and only time he had sought this woman's services, it had ended with him jumping to an awkward conclusion and bolting. He owed her an explanation, but what he thought had happened between them had been so unspoken that explaining himself was a sure road to embarrassing them both. Killing time allowed him to anticipate the worst, and the best.
When he rang, the bell was answered soon enough that he didn't feel too early.
"Hello again." Janice Flanders stood in the shadow of her entry hall, sounding like an old friend. Everything about her was easy and earth-toned, from her short ash-blond hair to whatever subtle makeup she wore, if any.
"Come in. I can't wait to get to work on this. You said the other sketch had 'borne fruit?'"
"Yes."
He followed her through shadow and sunlight from the sky-lights to the same completely cozy sunroom in which they had worked last time.
"Take your jacket off; I'll hang it up. You know the routine: get comfortable. Then we go to work."
He winced writhing out of the jacket. "Pulled a muscle working out."
"Oh. What do you do? Weights?"
"No. Tai chi. Other stuff like that."
She nodded. "I run, do free weights and yoga. The price of living in the physically fit nineties.
Would you like coffee? Decaf? I forget what I gave you last time."
"Ah, lemonade, I think. I don't remember either. Coffee's fine."
She vanished into the adjoining kitchen.
"Kids back in school?" he asked to make conversation. Then wished he hadn't. He might sound . . . hopeful.
"Yes! Time for me to play at my own work. So." She came back with the mugs and set them down on glass-topped metal tables near each of their chairs. "Tell me about your success with the first sketch."
He sipped the coffee first, aware of her relaxation and his stiffness. She was wearing tight-fitting leggings this time, not jeans, and an oversized knit top that emphasized her trim legs.
Earrings must be a signature with her. Today they were huge beaded iridescent circles that ricocheted the sunlight like stained glass.
Her sketch pad lay tilted against the corner of the sofa. Daybed, it was called, he thought.
Stacked with small pillows of all shapes, infinitely programmable.
"You seem . . . stiff today," she noted.
"A bad muscle pull. Every move I make reminds me."
"Tough. You want a back support?" She lifted an oblong pillow covered in some flowered purple fabric. Hyacinths? he wondered.
She tossed it to him and he stuck it behind his back. It did relieve the strain, actually.
"So. Mr. Effinger."
"Simple really. I reduced the sketch to wallet size copies and laminated a bunch to show around town. Then I had to trail him through a few sleazy bars." Her eyebrows lifted. "But I found him and reported him to the police, who questioned him and let him go."
"Got your man and they put him on the streets again. Typical." She shook her head. "Well, I'm glad my sketch worked. Maybe now he'll be nailed for something else."
"Oh, yes."
She picked up her sketch pad. "You had a lot of emotion toward the last subject. Who's the next one?"
"A woman. I've seen her only twice, but recently."
"Hmm." Janice was in her interviewing mode. Abstracted, impersonal, as acutely attuned to his unspoken testimony as a Geiger counter is to buried uranium.
Getting up the courage to see her again, letting her draw conclusions from his description was like going to confession, Matt decided. He expected another ordeal, but he was grateful she was as good as she was at it.
"A woman." Her mouth quirked into a tiny smile. He saw that she was curious about this
"wanted" woman, almost as curious about her as she was about him. "For an ordinary citizen, you require an extraordinary amount of police services."
"Yeah." He wanted to adjust his position, but realized it would dislodge the tapes, which itched constantly now, marking his skin more virulently than the healing gash. "She's hard to describe. I guess it's because she'd be considered beautiful, and that's so vague."
"You're absolutely right. Regular features have no character, but even the most perfect face has its quirks. Start with the shape of her face, her coloring."
"Her features were very sculpted, but pointed."
"Good bones."
"Her head was small, her neck rather long and thin. Snow White coloring, but not wide-eyed like Snow White."
"Not looking for a handsome prince, huh?"
"Not looking for anything predictable. Black hair. Thick, with a harsh sheen. Not pretty hair, not pliant."
Janice nodded, her fingers sweeping over the porous paper. Her pencil hissing soft as a serpent on each long stroke.
"Odd eyes. Blue-green. Could be contact lenses. The only other creature I've heard of with aqua eyes is a purebred cat. A shaded silver Persian."
" 'Creature.' An odd thing to call her."
Matt considered it a compliment, under the circumstances.
"Chin?"
"Small, like everything else about her. Nose, ears small. Tidy, neat. Even her teeth were unusually tiny. Made you realize why people used to compare them to pearls."
"Nose straight, or tur
ned up?"
"I. . . didn't notice. Straight, I think."
"Lips?"
"She wore little makeup, or maybe little noticeable makeup. I'm not an expert, but I'd suspect she had on more than I thought. And her lipstick hadn't rubbed off when shed kissed him. He'd noticed that hours later in the bathroom mirror when he was changing his dressing for the first time.
"She made you distinctly uncomfortable."
Matt laughed, though it hurt. "That was her intention, but I think that's her intention with everyone. Every man, anyway."
"A femme fatale?"
He nodded slowly, pleased that she was putting his impressions into words as well as pencil strokes. "So focused. So .. . manipulative."
"Weight and height?"
He understood now that she needed to visualize the whole person before she could finish the face.
"I'd say she was about five-six. And about fifteen pounds more than a model would be at that height."
"But not plump or blowsy."
"Lord, no! Sleek as a carnivorous otter, if that makes sense."
"Aha! Now I can see her. Smug, too, I bet."
"Smug? Certainly . . . knowing."
"Feral. Tidy. Lovely to look at in a self-involved way. We girls have another name for her than femme fatale."
He merely looked puzzled.
"Bitch," Janice said sweetly.
Matt, serious, weighed the term. "Actually, in her case, I think that's too mild."
Janice lifted both eyebrows without comment. She was expertly drawing out his feelings about Kitty to imbue her image with his emotions.
"Perverse," he said suddenly. "She is the most perverse human being I've ever met."
"Do you mean sexually?"
"How could I? I've only seen her twice."
Then he realized that, yes, if he were a man with an ordinary background, he could very well have known her sexual inclinations in two meetings, especially in this town.