3 - Buffalo Mountain: Ike Schwartz Mystery 3

by Frederick Ramsay

  “Come on in, Miz Harris.”

  “It’s Ruth, Abe, not Ms. Harris. Please?”

  “Well, thank you for that, Ruth. Now you get on in here and have you some punch and eats. Where’s Ike?”

  “Parking the car.”

  She stepped into the hallway and shed her coat. Abe took it and hung it on an old-fashioned oak coatrack. The house was warm and filled with the aroma of country cooking. A blast of cold air signaled Ike’s arrival. He hung up his coat next to hers and led her into the front parlor. It had been decorated with an evergreen tree festooned with what appeared to be odd-shaped balls. There were garlands of pine and ivy strung around the room, and a menorah had been placed on the mantle.

  “Except for the menorah, this could be any Christian holiday home,” she said.

  “How so?”

  “Well, you have a Christmas tree, and it’s decorated and…is that mistletoe?”

  “It is, and Abe is headed this way, so if you don’t want the old coot to buss you, step away.”

  “Who says I don’t want your dad to give me a kiss? Look, I’m moving right under it, so there.” Abe smiled and obliged.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said.

  “And a…what? Happy, merry, joyful…Chanukah.”

  “Any and all will do. Let me get you a dish.” Abe wheeled and headed for the dining room, where he proceeded to heap food on a plate.

  “Good Lord, he isn’t going to eat all that, is he?”

  “Actually, he’s filling it for you. Abe eats like a bird.”

  “One of you two Schwartzes will be the death of me. Wow, thank you, Abe. Can I get a doggie bag?”

  “She’s a card, Ike, you keep her close. You ain’t getting any younger and you ain’t much of a catch either.”

  “He really loves me. He just says those things to keep me humble.”

  “Somebody has to. Anyway, it’s all very…um, ecumenical.”

  “You think? Actually it’s primarily Jewish.”

  “That’s a what, a Chanukah tree, then? Come on.”

  “The trees, evergreen, even the mistletoe, have nothing to do with the Christian holiday. They are pagan symbols co-opted by Christians somewhere along the way. It is their genius. The menorah on the mantle is Jewish, and so are the dreidels on the tree.”

  “The whats?”

  “Tops. Chanukah toys for children.”

  “No Christian symbols here at all?”

  “Just the one.”

  “Where?”

  “We put a star on the top of the tree.”

  “The only Christmas I know is trees, Santa Claus, and somebody singing ‘White Christmas.’”

  “That’s an American shopping mall Christmas—sorry, holiday celebration. The courts have pretty much removed most of the Christian symbolism from public places.”

  “And Jesus is…?”

  “The Holiday Infant. Not even my time, but I think that’s pathetic. Sorry. Now I’m waiting for the ACLU to take them to court on the rest of it as well. Separation of church and state and all that. Paganism is a religion. In fact, the Supreme Court has said so. Satanism, Wicca, they all come under the designation of religion.”

  “And?”

  “And, I reckon that means we’ll be taking Halloween out of the schools next. No more witches and devils. The pity is, we pride ourselves on our pluralistic society, and now we are tearing it down in the name of not offending anyone.”

  “You’re on a rant, aren’t you?”

  “Just a little one—in honor of the season. See, it’s as though you have a box of precious stones and you crush the red ones because they offend the green ones. And then they are crushed because the blue ones have issues and pretty soon you have…?”

  “I give up—what?”

  “Sand. We are homogenizing our society and losing our brilliance.”

  “Oh, really—”

  “You know the problems Old Europe has? They used to be homogeneous. Now they are faced with an influx of Turks, Africans, and Arabs, and they don’t like it. They are being forced to become pluralistic. We are going the other way, and it worries me, that’s all. Soon the level playing field of homogeneity will be attained, and even the vestiges of your pagan ancestors will have disappeared.”

  “But not your pagan ancestors?”

  “No, our story begins at the beginning and does not include pagans in any of it, except for an occasional drop-in.”

  “Like my namesake?”

  “Precisely. They are important to the story but only—”

  “No ‘but only,’ Ike. Face it—no Ruth, no King David, end of story.”

  “Well, we might assume that the Lord could have managed a David some other way.”

  “I know little or nothing about theology and less about Judaism, but I will bet you a night of sweaty bed wrestling your scholars would not agree. If I understand the book your mother gave me right, it’s that story or no story.”

  “You’re probably right. And that leads you to what conclusion?”

  “That your more-or-less Christian mom is a better Jew than either you or your dad is now, or ever will be. She is on to something.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not for me to say, but I need to talk to her and soon.”

  Other guests began to arrive and Ike and Ruth were distracted for the moment. Leon Weitz cornered Abe, who smiled and began one of his anecdotes about politics in the Commonwealth. Blake Fisher came in looking much too young and alive and escorting a beautiful young woman, who, he claimed, played the organ. To Ruth’s chagrin, he confirmed Ike’s description of the decorations. Several other couples arrived, people she did not know but assumed were family or friends. Ike greeted them and brought most over to her to be introduced. Had she been raised in Virginia, she would have recognized most of the names as belonging to former governors, senators, and the upper echelon of Commonwealth politics. She smiled and tried to recall the memory tricks she’d been taught to retain names. She failed.

  From time to time, individuals and small groups disappeared down the hall. They returned within minutes. She looked at one group and raised one eyebrow to Ike.

  “They are wishing my mother the best for the holiday—saying hello, maybe a disguised goodbye.”

  “Can I…?”

  “She’ll call you, Ruth. She’s saving you for later. Eat your food.”

  “I did. I ate more than I ever do and I didn’t make a dent in this pile of cholesterol-enhancing…didn’t anyone ever teach you about salad?”

  “It’s not the season for salad. From Thanksgiving to the first of January, we eat ’til it hurts. You are not participating. You need to get into the program.”

  “So arrest me, Sheriff. You’ll never take me alive, copper—at least not with this in my system.”

  Ruth spent the next hour mingling with the guests. She put her still-heaping plate down only to have Abe hand her a new one. She stuck to the punch, which she assumed was nonalcoholic. It wasn’t. She lost track of Ike. She scanned the crowd in the parlor and the dining room without success. She put her plate down again. No Abe, no threat of a third. Finally she caught sight of the two of them in the hallway.

  “She would like to see you, Ruth,” Abe said. “She’s pretty worn out with all the coming and going but she said to send you in.”

  “I won’t stay long.” She made her way down the hall toward the rear of the house. The door stood ajar. She tapped lightly, paused, and went in. Ike’s mother seemed much as she remembered from her last visit—paler maybe, but that could be the effect of the candles flickering on the mantle.

  “Happy Chanukah and Merry Christmas, too,” Ruth said. She took a seat next to the bed.

  “How are you, Ruth?”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “They think I don’t know about moving the party up. They think I might not make it for another week. Men!”

  Ruth smiled and took her hand. “Ike said you wanted to see me, esp
ecially.”

  “I do. He’s a good man, isn’t he, my Isaac?”

  “Yes, he is. A little unruly at times and annoyingly independent.”

  “He’s like his father. More than either will admit. They go at each other…oh my, the arguments they get into. I think they take the other side just to be perverse. You ever notice that with Isaac?”

  “Does it snow in Maine?”

  “What? I guess it must but—”

  “I’m sorry, figure of speech. Your son can be the most contrary man I ever met. Yes, he will deliberately bait me. If I say black, he’ll say white. Sometimes I could—”

  “He must care for you very much. He only does that with people he loves.”

  “Well, I—”

  “It’s all right. Now tell me, what about my story? Did you read it?”

  “Yes, it and several others. It’s history but it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, a whole lot more. And?”

  Ruth thought for a long moment. Was she really ready for this? She looked into the luminous questioning eyes of the dying woman opposite her. She blinked back a tear.

  “David is a fine name for a boy,” she murmured.

  “Yes, isn’t it? Thank you, Ruth.”

  Chapter 46

  Ike cradled the phone and frowned. Steve Bolt had sounded like a drowning man, first because he was obviously frightened and second because a weak cell phone connection made him sound like he was speaking underwater. He wanted to know if Ike knew anything. Ike repeated the things he’d said before. He listened to Bolt’s retelling of the plan to rob Kamarov. He wanted to know what his chances were; if he told everything, could he get immunity. Ike wasn’t certain what sort of immunity he wanted but agreed as long as whatever he had to confess didn’t involve grand theft or murder in any of its prosecutorial forms he had a chance. He had to explain the differences between manslaughter and first degree. Bolt apparently remembered enough of the same information from an old Law and Order episode and agreed.

  “Is there anything else? Anything you forgot to tell me?”

  “Well, there was the license plate on the car.”

  “The one you were kidnapped in?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about it?”

  “I got it.”

  Ike wrote the number on a scrap of paper and said he might need Bolt to testify in court at some time in the future, and Bolt said that he’d have to find him first and hung up. Apparently he didn’t know that cell phones could be traced, and while pin-pointing the exact location might be difficult, they could get close enough. More importantly, Ike had also learned enough from Leon Weitz to know that once the right people were told about Whaite’s killing and that Bolt might be implicated, mountain justice would kick in. Whaite’s extended family would find Bolt’s hiding place and spit him out like a watermelon pit.

  ***

  At one forty-five the search warrants from Floyd County arrived. Since the credit cards would have been stolen and the hit and run occurred in their jurisdiction, the county sheriff promised help as needed. Ike had nothing else to do until Sam and Karl arrived. Two o’clock, he’d said. He looked at his watch. Three minutes to go.

  The door opened and Sam and Karl blew in with a gust of cold air.

  “I assume you had to turn in your service piece with your suspension. I can loan you one or—”

  “I have one, backup, no problem.”

  “We’ll go in plainclothes, I think. Stick your gun in your belt, purse, whatever, and let’s go.”

  ***

  Hollis limped into the bar. He’d lost one of his crutches the night before. He didn’t remember how or when. Hollis only drank beer and assumed that since it only had twelve percent alcohol, he could never get drunk. He, like many young and, in his case, stupid people, never connected their behavior with reality and went careening drunkenly through life or down highways, a threat to themselves and those around them. Donnie sat in the corner looking smug. Hollis wasn’t sure if he wanted to sit with him or not. He’d heard rumors.

  “You hear about the fire police?” he said, and sat down.

  “How many times I got to tell you, they aren’t called fire police?”

  “What did he want with you?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle, and I guess they’ll be some respect for me around here from now on.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t think that police’s car just happened to hit that tree, do you?”

  “Jeeze, what did you do, Donnie?”

  “I ain’t saying, but nobody messes with my stuff.”

  The Creator, for reasons known only to him, had wired Hollis’ brain differently than the rest of humankind. Those who knew him realized he could read and did so, voluminously. He had a native intelligence in there somewhere that often popped out in the most unlikely places and times, but at the same time they said he didn’t have the brains of a hop toad. Even so, in the confused circuitry of his central nervous system, he heard Donnie’s unspoken message and intuitively knew he needed to put some distance between himself and his friend.

  “Gotta go,” he said, stood, and winced as he put weight on his bad leg.

  “Sit down, you just got here.” Donnie pulled him back into the booth by his shirttail. “Beer,” he shouted to the barkeep.

  “Come and get it, Mr. Mountain Man.” Several of the regulars laughed. Donnie’s face turned red.

  “You’d better watch it or—”

  “Or what? You going to pull that little pop gun of yours and—”

  The door swung open and three people sauntered in. Two were abnormally tall—a black guy and a redheaded woman. The third, tall enough, looked hard, like he could be trouble. Nobody needed to see badges to be told they were police. Nobody except Donnie and Hollis.

  “I gotta go,” Hollis repeated and stood well out of Donnie’s reach this time.

  “That’s them,” the tall woman said. “That’s both of them.”

  Hollis swallowed and looked behind him, hoping that she meant someone else. He thought about running but the three of them stood between him and the door and, besides, he had enough trouble walking. Running was out of the question. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Donnie’s hand move toward his pocket—the pocket where he usually kept his pistol.

  “Don’t even think about it, Oldham,” the middle guy said. He flipped open his parka and flashed a badge. Hollis saw the butt of the Magnum in the guy’s belt. The wind went out of him and he collapsed back in the booth.

  “Donald Oldham, I have a warrant for your arrest for grand theft larceny. Stolen credit cards,” the middle guy said and added, “And you, too, son. You’re Hollis somebody, aren’t you? What’s your full name, Hollis?”

  Hollis might have answered had he not fainted dead away.

  Chapter 47

  Ike stared at Oldham’s hand. If it didn’t stop moving toward his pocket, he’d have to draw down on the kid and he didn’t want that. One more inch and he’d do it. His fingers closed over the butt of his pistol and tensed. At the moment he would have drawn, Karl took two long strides to Oldham and pinioned his arms at his sides. He then flipped him bodily out of the booth and face down on the table, knocking over a half-filled glass of beer. Oldham flailed about but Karl caught each wrist in turn and cuffed him. He rummaged in his pockets and withdrew an old colt .38 Police Special, a knife, a wallet, and four credit cards. Hollis slid off the bench and into a rumpled heap on the floor. Four men in the bar stood and applauded.

  ***

  The Floyd County Sheriff’s Department provided an interview room and a holding cell. Hollis began blubbering his story the minute he came to. He had to be stopped until he had been Mirandized. Once done, he began again and spilled the whole story. Two deputies were sent to the middle school to pick up his brother, Dermont. Another search warrant arrived to allow a search of Hollis’ house. Ike guessed the FBI would be the next group in if Sam found what he suspected o
n the father’s hard drive. Hollis’ parents arrived and were ushered into the Sheriff’s office to wait. Ike let Donnie cool his heels in the holding cell. His gun was bagged and sent to the local lab for ballistics tests.

  Ike and Karl, accompanied by a Floyd County deputy, drove to Donnie’s house. Ike sent the deputy into the house to search while he and Karl lifted the tarp from the truck in the backyard. T.J. had been right. The passenger side door and front quarter panel were badly damaged and showed evidence of red paint. It looked as though Donnie had tried to wipe it away but failed.

  “Well, well,” Ike said. “If Sam is right, I guess we got our guy.” He bent over the fender and flaked off a sample of the red paint into an envelope. “We’ll need a tow truck to take this to the impound yard. In the meantime, I’ll get the lab working on this sample.”

  Karl had climbed into the bed. He flashed his light into the corners and then lay flat and peered under the tool box. He reached in and grabbed something.

  “I have a shoe,” he said.

  “Just one?”

  “Yeah. It’s been here a while, I think. It’s wet and the heel is loose, must not have been nailed on tight enough. It’s not scuffed, though.”

  “You have gloves on, right?” Karl held up a latex-sheathed hand and gave Ike a look. “Sorry, had to be sure. Hand me the shoe and I’ll bag it.”

  Ike took the shoe and held it up at eye level. It was the mate to Kamarov’s missing loafer. He turned his back to Karl and twisted the heel. The old-fashioned roll of microfilm dropped into his hand. He slipped the shoe, its heel restored, into a bag, and palmed the film.

  “We’ll let the Floyd people finish up here, Karl. We have everything we need to sweat Donnie Oldham.”

  “Too bad it’s out of our jurisdiction. I know the folks in Picketsville would dearly love to put this guy away.”

  “Oh, we’ll have our turn. Don’t forget, for now, Kamarov is ours.”

  “This guy did the Russian?”