The cigar shop outdid the monument yard in ornamentation, with a pair of plastic candy canes, illuminated from within, on either side of the doorstep and bubbling Christmas lights strung around the door and in the shop window. Here, cigar boxes and humidors formed a semicircular backdrop around a crèche complete with figures of the Holy Family.
The curtain shop, too, was dolled up for the holidays. Behind its expansive plate glass windows was a gaudy array of heavily embroidered curtain panels in shades of red, green, and gold. But that wasn’t all there was to see. Also packed into the display were a set of crisp white café curtains embroidered with poinsettias, shower curtains printed with a snowflake motif, and padded plastic toilet seat covers printed with Santas, snowmen, reindeer, and even an image of the Grinch from How the Grinch Stole Christmas.
Finally, Liz came to Rosalita’s Notions, a tiny storefront with a window jammed with religious statuary, cut-glass candy dishes, gilt-edged tea sets, and silk flowers. All of the items were covered with a layer of dust so thick that it made the illuminated Madonna and Child look as if they were covered with volcanic ash. Now here was a home for that New York City cabdriver’s painting!
Liz knocked on the door next to Rosalita’s and, receiving no answer, looked around for a doorbell or buzzer. Before she found one, the door opened inward and she saw, standing in a dust-free, newly refurbished stairway, a small man with a warm smile.
“I’m looking for Turkoman Books and a man by the name of Faisal Al-Turkait,” Liz said.
“Then you’ve come to the right place and the right man. Let me show you into the shop.”
Although many of the books that lined the walls were old, the clean, well-lighted environment they were housed in formed a sharp contrast with the notions shop downstairs. Here, the odor of old leather bookbindings blended pleasingly with the aroma of recently brewed coffee. Motioning his visitor into a chair, the proprietor of Turkoman Books said, “Let me give you a cup of coffee. Then we can sit and you can tell me about the library you represent and discuss the books you’re looking for.”
“This is delicious,” Liz said of the strong brew. “But I don’t want to mislead you, Mr. Al-Turkait. I’m not a librarian and I’m not here to purchase numerous books.”
“Ah, then I have the rare pleasure of welcoming a browser!” the book dealer said. “You see, the vast majority of my business consists of acquiring books on demand for academic and research libraries. I take it you are a scholar then?”
“I wish I were! As it happens, I would be incapable of browsing here, unless it were for an Arabic–English dictionary. I have familiarity with neither Arabic nor any other Middle Eastern language. I came here to ask if I might hire you to translate a book title and a list of words for me. I’m rather certain they’re written in Arabic.”
“Let’s start with the list of words. How long is it?”
Liz pulled the Xeroxed copy of the list out of her bag and showed it to him.
“I cannot take your hard-earned money for such an easy task. This list and the title of one book? It’s nothing.”
“No, really, I’d be happy to reward you for your valuable time.”
“I agree time is valuable, but the value of it is not always to be measured in money. Here it is, the beginning of the Christmas holiday, a day I fully expected to spend entirely on my own. Not because, as you may assume, I am Muslim. On the contrary, I am a Christian Arab. There are millions of us, you know. I’m alone because my only daughter is abroad on a work-study project. She is a college student,” he added proudly, pointing to her photo on his desk. “I’m a widower, and the rest of my family is in Tikrit—that’s in northern Iraq.” Looking around his shop, the book dealer went on, “I kept the shop open today because it gives me something to do. There is always correspondence to catch up on. But I never thought I’d be welcoming a customer, and one who must have a story to tell, since it would only take something important, worrying, or complicated to bring a lovely lady like yourself into a hole in the wall like this the day before Christmas. Especially with a mere grocery list to consult me about.”
“I realize there’s a grocery list on one side of the paper, but it’s the Arabic writing on the other side that I need you to translate for me,” Liz said.
“That’s just what I am telling you. The Arabic writing is also a grocery list, you see. It lists exactly the same things in Arabic, and in the same order, as it does in English. Look here: This word, tuffahah, it means ‘apple.’ One apple. For apples in general, we say tuffah. For two apples, we say tuffahtayn. This Arabic word, mishmish, means ‘apricot.’ This word teen means ‘figs.’ And, here, tukki, that means ‘wild berry.’ It looks like someone has a taste for fruits.”
The grocery list might not have been very helpful, but at least something remained to be learned from the book dealer. “I still have the book title for you to translate, if you wouldn’t mind,” Liz said, taking out the photo of the Johanssons’ living room with the open book splayed on the armchair.
The book dealer’s demeanor changed. But he retained a polite tone as he said, “This is a strange way to inquire about a book title and, perhaps, a less honest approach than I would have expected from a polite lady like yourself, to involve me in something I should not involve myself in. This is a police photo, is it not?” he said, holding the eight-by-ten-inch picture at arm’s length.
“You were correct, Mr. Al-Turkait, when you said it is a complicated, worrying story that brings me into your shop the day before Christmas. And you deserve to know the background of my inquiry. Will you please let me fill you in?”
Setting down the photo and fetching more coffee for them both, Faisel Al-Turkait sat without a word while Liz told him how the list had been found in a New York City cab, how the cab and a few photos were all she had to go on regarding Ellen Johansson’s outing, and how the cabdriver had gone missing, too. “I’ve been grasping at straws,” she concluded.
“But sometimes that’s the only way to find the needle in the haystack,” Faisal Al-Turkait said. “Perhaps you’ve found one such needle here,” he added, picking up the photo. “The title of this book translates to Slang and Common Arabic Expressions for Foreign Service Officers. It’s edited by Martin Holmesby.”
“The British intelligence expert who’s always commenting on problems in the Middle East!” Liz exclaimed, meeting the book dealer’s eyes.
“Your taxi driver may be an average guy, but perhaps your lady is a spy,” he said.
Chapter 14
Liz popped open her umbrella to walk back to her car, crossing the street this time to get a closer look at shop windows on the other side. They were just as varied and just as interesting. Here, a carpet shop loaded with the “Remnants and Mill Ends” its sign promised was neighbor to a Portuguese fish market and a toy emporium calling itself Godzilla Toyshop. A few doors down, Liz came upon the Globetrotter’s Music Shop, with a window advertisement promising, “International Instruments Our Specialty.”
Here was a case of truth in advertising. The walls reaching up to high ceilings were hung with drums of every description, many of them made of skins stretched over huge, hollowed-out gourds. There were also maraca-like gourds on handles, and guitars, balalaikas, lutes, ukuleles, and banjos.
“Do you carry strings for Irish tenor banjos?” Liz asked the clerk and was pleased when he pulled four cellophane packets, each containing a different string, from a well-organized drawer.
After paying the clerk, she returned to her car and drove through very sluggish shopping traffic to the newsroom. She arrived early enough to open a number of small gifts on her desk, adding several small chocolates she found there to her stash in the zipped coconut.
Then, after fetching a cup of coffee and sandwich from the cafeteria downstairs—egg salad, not chicken or turkey—she started to write her story about the
turkey heist. Lines were not up, and she did not know how much space she’d be given, so she took special care to keep the essentials at the top of the story.
“It was a case of duck, duck, goose—and 24 turkeys, too—when a Santa-suit–clad scamster lifted 27 fresh-killed birds from Torrentino’s Poultry Place in East Cambridge yesterday,” Liz wrote.
“According to butcher and shop owner Luigi Torrentino, 68, his shop clerk Lucarno Fino, 15, was taken in by the Santa look-alike’s story that he was picking up the fresh-killed fowl for charity. Torrentino said the teen did not verify with him that the poultry was intended as a charitable donation.
“Detective Matt Hurley characterized the Christmas Eve day chicken heist as a scam. ‘The kid did chicken (expletive) to prevent it, though,’ Hurley said, referring to Fino. ‘In fact, he helped load the birds into the van they were taken away in. He actually helped the birds fly the coop,’ Hurley added. ‘And here’s the kicker. After all that, he couldn’t describe the vehicle!’ Hurley said.”
Liz pressed the H&J button on her keyboard and watched the machine lay out her story in a long column. The ATEX machine measured the piece, too. 3.6 inches. Probably just about right for the gravity of the crime.
Dermott McCann came by her desk, and said, “What have you got for me, Higgins? I need to know for the meeting.”
Liz gave him a nutshell summary. Then she made her way to the library to read her e-mail while McCann determined story sizes and placement in the afternoon meeting. Besides more spam messages reading “Blister,” there were Christmas messages from her mother, Aunt Janice, and several colleagues and friends. Nothing new from Cormac Kinnaird. Annoyed at how much it mattered to her, Liz knew she needed to separate her need for his professional expertise from her personal feelings for him. Although she would have preferred to phone him, in the hope that the tone of his voice would help her to read his mood, she knew she had to contact him regarding the Johansson case, so she tapped out an e-mail message on the keyboard: “Dear Cormac, I would very much like to connect with you regarding professional matters—and especially to deliver a little something to put under your Christmas tree. I hope you will get in touch with me as soon as it is convenient. With warm gratitude for the gorgeous bouquet, I wish you a Merry Christmas. Liz.”
After replying to a few family messages, Liz returned to her desk and saw the light blinking on her phone. Before picking it up, she logged onto ATEX and found her chicken heist piece was just the right length. She also read, with gratitude, the words “File and fly rule in effect. Merry XMAS.” After sending her story into the system, she dialed up her voice-mail messages and found she’d just missed a call from her mother and another one from Cormac.
“It’s Cormac,” the doctor said on her voice mail. “It’s a business matter. You can catch me on this line until around six-thirty, when I’ll be meeting some people at Tir Na Nog. Come to think of it, you can catch me there, too, in the evening.”
Liz looked at the clock. It was 6:20. But when she phoned Cormac, he did not pick up. Unprepared for this, she left an awkward but honest message.
“I’m disappointed not to find you in, Cormac,” she said. “And I feel unsure if I should take your time for business on Christmas Eve. Really, I don’t know what to do. I’ll give this all some thought during my drive and hope, whether I see you or not tonight, you have a wonderful Christmas.”
It might be a toss-up as to whether Liz should go to the Irish bar, but she was certain of one thing. If she did go out, there was no way this bird would turn up at a Christmas Eve gathering in the same clothes she’d worn to cover the fresh-killed poultry scam. So she got on the Pike and headed back to Gravesend Street.
Along the way, she saw her name and the Christmas greeting in lights again on the dark side of her billboard. This made her remember she hadn’t phoned Tom to thank him for his surprise. After turning on her Christmas tree lights, phoning him was the first thing she did when she arrived home.
But Tom was not in. And the message on his answering machine gave her pause. “We’re out for Christmas Eve, but please leave a message,” a woman’s recorded voice said. “And Merry Christmas to all!” Tom’s voice added.
“We?” Liz almost said aloud. She had been under the impression that Tom lived alone. Who was this woman? Surprised again by unexpected information in an answering machine message, she said only, “Merry Christmas to you, too,” and hung up without adding the words she had expected to say: “And thank you for last night.”
Then she sank into her chair, pulled up the purple and white afghan and gazed at her tree. There remained one more gift under it. Getting up to examine it, she saw that the paper on it was tattered and torn. And when she opened it, she realized why: It was a catnip mouse for Prudence. Apparently, the cat had tried and failed to open it.
What’s a guy with a girlfriend doing providing treats to another woman and to her cat? Liz wondered. Throwing the mouse to Prudence, she decided not to spend Christmas Eve alone, even if it might mean awkwardness with Cormac. Using the remaining red tissue paper, she wrapped up the four guitar strings in separate pieces of paper, tied them together in a flat stack with gold ribbon, and poured herself a glass of Chardonnay.
Then she went through her closet and dresser in frustration. Even at age thirty-two, it was possible to be plunged into a high-school moment when challenged to pick out an outfit intended to make a good impression on a member of the opposite sex. Casual dress had been the norm at the Green Briar and Tir Na Nog, but Liz had no idea if this would be the case on Christmas Eve. Too bad she had already worn her forest green velvet tunic to one of her two meetings with Cormac. While its fabric was soft and luxurious, the color did not stand out as loud or dressy. Finally, Liz decided to forget about fitting into the crowd and to put on her mint-green, shot silk tunic-length jacket over black velvet leggings. It was her favorite outfit for festive occasions, and it was clean, so it would just have to do.
Liz needn’t have worried about her fashion choice. When she wedged her way into the crowd that packed Tir Na Nog, she found it was impossible to stand back and get a full-figure look at anyone. In the small room, made warm with body heat and cigarette smoke, she was glad she had opted for the silk instead of a sweater.
It took some doing to find Cormac, but, predictably, he was seated at a table near the musicians. Less predictably, he was leaning forward in animated conversation with a red-headed woman. The eye contact he made with her beat any he’d ever made with Liz. The pair looked like a couple. Seeing this, Liz went to the bar and bought her own drink, another glass of Chardonnay. As she turned to find a seat, she found Cormac standing behind her.
“I would have bought you that,” he said.
“Thank you, but I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation.”
“It’s a reel,” Cormac said, referring to a lively tune filling the air.
“Aren’t you playing tonight?”
“Not with this group. They’re so much more advanced than I am. I left my banjo at home. But I’ll learn a little something by listening. Come on over, and I’ll introduce you to Maggie,” he added.
The redhead gave Liz as thorough a looking over as could be accomplished in the crowded place. Then, placing one hand proprietarily on Cormac’s, she spread the fingers of the other and ran them through her gorgeous mane of straight, copper-colored hair, lifting her locks so that they fell fabulously again to her shoulders. The gesture—so reminiscent of Liz’s own movement when she was stressed or excited—made the reporter feel intensely uncomfortable. So did the realization that Cormac apparently had a taste for women with red-toned hair. The effect of Maggie’s movement seemed not to have been lost on Cormac, who could hardly take his eyes off her, even as she turned her back on him and stepped forward to speak to one of the musicians.
“I’m ready whenever you are,” Liz heard her say.
>
The reel spun on for some minutes. But after it was through, Maggie turned and faced the crowd. The musicians lay down their instruments and gave her their attention as, closing her striking green eyes, Maggie lifted her voice to sing:
It was down by the salley gardens
my love and I did meet,
She passed the Sally gardens
with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take life easy,
as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish,
with her would not agree.
In a field by the river
my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder
she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy,
as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish,
and now am full of tears.
Slowly lifting her eyelids, Maggie accepted the applause her perfectly delicate singing deserved and, smiling at Cormac, returned to the table. It was impossible to hear what she said to him as the musicians struck up a syncopated tune. But Cormac replied by squeezing her hand across the small table and gazing intently into her eyes.
Certain she did not wish to witness any more of this, Liz made a hasty exit from Tir Na Nog, missing the chance to observe the redhead turn, a moment later, to give an open-mouthed kiss to a bearded musician who tapped her on the shoulder. Turning around, himself, to look for Liz, Cormac’s face fell as he realized she was out of sight. As he wove through the crowd looking for her, his expression changed. Realizing his actions must matter to Liz, he began to smile. Returning to his table he said to Maggie and her man, “Congratulations on your engagement!”
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