“My dear young lady,” said Harmony, with some heat, “I was in the front lines of the Berkeley Free Speech Movement before you were born. I collected my share of bruises opposing the war in Vietnam. As an experienced protester, my suggestions are of a practical nature. First, if you want to get radio and TV coverage, you should hold your protest in the afternoon so you can co-opt the lead story on the six o’clock news. Second, I can promise more protesters if I have the morning to round them up.”
“Who?” demanded Orion Massine suspiciously.
“Socorro Heights senior citizens.” There was muttering about that idea. “Lance’s mother is a member. None of them think Lance killed his father, but people at the center are extremely worried because the police are investigating Lance instead of looking for these daytime robbers who have killed several elderly men. I think the senior citizens would be delighted to join you at Police Headquarters.
“My third suggestion,” continued Harmony, raising her voice over the hubbub, “is that you need training in safe protest tactics, which I am willing to provide right now to this group and tomorrow morning to the seniors.”
“What kind of training?” asked Hoke.
“How to go limp so the police have to drag you away. That makes good TV footage. If they’re using nightsticks, how to fall safely, protect your head and vital organs.”
“Madam,” said Donald Mallory, “surely you don’t anticipate—”
“One never knows what the police will do, Professor. I was attacked by them in my younger days. I’d hate to think that any of us might be seriously hurt.”
“Injuries might help Lance’s case,” said Orion.
“I don’t want anyone hurt on my behalf,” said Lance.
“Well, I think she’s got it right about the time. How about two, tomorrow afternoon? Anyone object?” asked Orion.
No one did. “Good,” said Harmony. “Now if those who are planning to join the protest will just move away from their chairs, I’ll demonstrate some of the tricks.”
Bicycle racers and gay activists joined Harmony’s class enthusiastically and were soon dropping to the floor under her directions, rolling up in balls to protect their heads and vital organs, going limp in one another’s arms. The English faculty stayed aloof until their chairman, Raul Mendez, had introduced himself to Harmony and suggested that people might be injured during the lessons.
“Why, you’re the renowned critic of Latino literature!” said Harmony. “What a pleasure to meet you.”
After that, every English professor or student who hung back got a sharp look from the chairman. For lack of room, Harmony soon moved her class out into the halls of the Humanities building, although one professor pointed out that the university’s insurance might not cover those who were injured while learning how to keep themselves from injury.
As they were driving home, Lance said hesitantly, “What’s your daughter going to think of this protest?”
“Elena’s known me all her life,” said Harmony cheerfully. “This is just what she’d expect.”
Lance sighed. “I’ve always liked to keep a low profile. It seems to me that after this, everyone in town will know the police think I killed my father.”
“The media will get hold of it anyway, and in the meantime, maybe we can force the police to let you attend your bicycle race.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. There’s nothing like a good protest to get the blood running and shake up the power structure. Enough so that they’ll make concessions to shut us up.”
“I hope they don’t put me in jail to shut me up,” said Lance. “People of my sexual orientation have a hard time in jail.”
“Well, dear, if they arrest you, we’ll insist on solitary. Then you’ll have all that time to write poetry. Think of what going to jail did for Oscar Wilde.”
“Yes,” said Lance. “He had to exile himself after he got out, and he died in a French apartment with dreadful wallpaper.”
“You went to that poetry reading, didn’t you?” asked Elena when her mother got home. Harmony had been gone when Elena returned from work, late as usual.
“Of course, I did,” said Harmony. “And his poetry was delightful. It was a very interesting meeting.”
“I don’t want to hear about it,” muttered Elena. “Did Dimitra go?”
“No, she had a date.”
“She went out with Omar again?”
“No, she went to a country-dancing club with a Mr. Tyler from the senior citizens center.”
“She can’t dance,” said Elena. “She’s in a walker.”
“I realize that, dear, but she’ll enjoy the music.”
“For Pete’s sake, Boris died Monday, and she’s already had two dates. They’re not even burying him until tomorrow. Isn’t she supposed to be at the funeral parlor greeting the mourners?”
“She decided to cancel the visitation. The graveside ceremony’s in the morning at Fort Bliss. Ten o’clock. I think you should try to be there, Elena.”
“I’ll do that,” said Elena. She thought about Dimitra and T. Bob Tyler, the man described by Sheriff Blankenship as prone to assault. “Tyler might have killed Boris,” she murmured.
“I thought Lance was your prime suspect,” said Harmony.
“Well, he is,” Elena replied defensively, “but I heard some stuff about Tyler that makes me nervous. I wonder if Dimitra knows that he’s a barroom brawler?”
Her mother went to bed, but Elena sat up fretting, watching the Potemkin house, which was dark. Finally an old truck pulled up in front at ten-thirty. T. Bob Tyler, be-Stetsoned, ambled to the back of the pickup and removed Dimitra’s walker, then pushed it to the passenger side. Elena watched him lift Dimitra down as if she were Snow White and he the handsome prince. What a sight those two must have made at the country-music club. Elena wondered whether T. Bob had decked anyone for making remarks about senior citizens.
Once he’d returned to the truck, Elena hurried down the street to knock on Dimitra’s door.
“Who is it?” Dimitra yelled. “I’ve got a gun.”
“It’s me. Elena.”
Dimitra opened the door immediately. “You want more of my cabbage rolls, right? Well, I decided to take your advice and serve them after the funeral. Maybe I’ll make some more tomorrow after we’ve put Boris in the ground.” She consulted an appointment calendar on a lamp table. “No, I can’t do that. I’m going to the movies tomorrow afternoon with Omar.”
At least it wasn’t T. Bob Tyler. “Look, Dimitra, there’s something I’ve got to tell you. I hate being a gossip, but I ran a check on T. Bob Tyler. That’s who you were just out with, right?”
“I certainly was. We had the best time watching the young people two-step. I’ve decided that if there’s enough money, I’m going to have the physical therapy Boris wouldn’t pay for after my hip replacement. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life on the sidelines.”
“Yeah, well, I’m glad you had a good time, Dimitra. Was there any trouble?”
“Why would there be trouble? T. Bob Tyler would never let anyone lay a hand on me.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” muttered Elena.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“T. Bob’s got a long history of assaults.”
Dimitra paled. “Who’d he hit?”
“A lot of guys in Otero County and one in Los Santos.”
“Did he hit any women?”
“No women,” Elena admitted.
“Then why are you telling me? It’s men who hit women you have to watch out for.”
“Still, Dimitra—”
“I’m having a lovely time, young lady. Don’t spoil it. And I’ll thank you not to be spying on me. I had enough of that with Boris.”
15
Friday, October 1, 10:
30 A.M.
Elena stood at the graveside with Harmony and Leo. Never having been to the Fort Bliss National Cemetery, she found it surprisingly beautiful—green grass, trees, the battalions of white crosses in the older section. You could almost forget you were living on a desert mountain.
As the Russian Orthodox priest prayed over Boris Potemkin’s casket, Elena tried to look attentive, although she was, in fact, studying the mourners. A large contingent from Boris’ V.F.W. Post clustered across from the family, one old soldier in a wheelchair, two hunched over canes, some middle-aged, who might be veterans of Korea or Vietnam. Neighbors had come, the Fogels, the Ituribes, and Gloria Ledesma, scowling at Leo as if she thought he planned to make an arrest during the ceremony. Lance evidently expected to be the arrestee. He was visibly nervous and looked more often at Leo and Elena than he did at the priest.
The bridge group and other people from the senior citizens center were also in attendance. Emily Marks wore a chic black suit and a hat with a black veil. Several of the veterans had taken her for the widow and come up to express sympathy. Causing great astonishment, she replied that she hadn’t known the deceased well, but wasn’t it terrible how many violent crimes were committed these days?
The mistake didn’t surprise Elena, since Dimitra had on a yellow flowered dress and a bright blue straw hat with yellow daisies bobbing on the brim. She looked quite festive, flanked by her admirers, Omar Ashkenazi in a green polyester leisure suit—Elena hadn’t known those were made anymore—his smooth brown scalp glowing in the morning sunshine, and T. Bob Tyler, who was glaring at the casket and then at Omar with such enmity that Elena decided he was a better suspect than she had figured.
Lance, standing to the right of Omar, reached over and patted his mother on the arm. The gesture earned him a beaming smile, and Elena heard Dimitra whisper, “Be sure to come for the wake. Cabbage rolls and vodka.”
“Might as well,” Lance muttered. “I can’t go to Santa Fe.”
“Now, don’t pout,” said Dimitra, as if he were ten years old. “There’ll be other races.”
The bearded priest glared at them and continued his interminable prayer. Even the seven-man honor guard was starting to fidget. After the final amen, a ramrod-straight old man stepped forward, his uniform hanging loosely from a gaunt frame. In a loud voice that echoed across the cemetery, he said, “Before we have the military salute to our fallen brother-in-arms, Boris Potemkin, I would like to say a few words on behalf of the members of V.F.W. Post 8550.” He scowled at the civilian mourners. “Boris Potemkin was a soldier. He served his country honorably in The Great War, one of the few wars in recent memory for which the public feels any affection.”
A Vietnam veteran muttered angrily under his breath.
“Boris built the bridges and the roads that allowed the army to march through France, through Germany to slay the Hydraheaded Fascist monster, the evil followers of dictatorship. Let us all remember Boris and his service to his adopted country, for Boris came from Russia, that hotbed of Communism.”
“It’s not a hotbed anymore,” said Lydia Beeman. “You ought to keep up with the times, Conrad.”
“Boris never believed the Communists were gone,” said Dimitra from across the open grave.
“This is a man’s tribute,” rumbled the old soldier. “If women want to say something, they can do it when I’m through.” He cleared his throat forcefully. “So we, his fellow soldiers, bid farewell to a departed patriot, Boris Potemkin.”
The officer with the honor guard barked, “Fire!” Seven soldiers discharged their rifles, the first of three volleys in the traditional twenty-one-gun salute. The Vietnam veteran jerked as if he’d been shot and, shouting, “Gooks! Hit the dirt!” dove toward the grave, taking a little old lady with him.
“Fire!” The soldiers, trying not to stare, fired.
“For heaven’s sake,” cried Harmony, “the man’s having a flashback. Stop that shooting.”
“Fire!” Their rifles no longer at the proper angle, the honor guard fired one last time. Seeing the smoke drifting from rifle barrels aimed every which way, the widow, her beaus, and the nonmilitary mourners scattered like protesters under a tear-gas attack.
“It’s O.K., man,” said Lance, leaning down to pat the shoulder of the trembling ex-warrior, who was sprawled on the casket. “They’re using blanks, not bullets.”
“Gooks,” whispered the veteran, pointing to Omar Ashkenazi.
“Sh-sh,” said Lance. “He’s my mother’s boyfriend, not the Vietcong.” Lance managed to help the old lady to her feet and onto the artificial grass beside the grave. Harmony kept up a soothing murmur to the trembling veteran while she disentangled him from the red, white, and blue carnations sent by the V.F.W.
“This has got to take the cake for graveside disasters,” Elena muttered, stepping forward to help her mother with the veteran.
“This is what happens when the country sends young men off to kill women and children for no good reason and then sneers at them when they come home,” said Harmony to the old veteran, as if the war in Vietnam had been his fault.
“Mom!” Elena hissed. That’s all she needed—for her mother to get into a political squabble. She and Harmony had turned the victim of the flashback over to Leo.
“Madam,” said the old soldier, “I fought my way from the beaches of Normandy to—”
“And got kissed by pretty French girls all the way, I imagine,” retorted Harmony. “How many children and old women threw grenades at you?”
“Lance always was a sweet boy,” said Dimitra. “Did you see him go to the rescue of that poor woman?”
“He’s a fine-lookin’ young fella,” said T. Bob Tyler. “It’s an honor to meet him.”
“Nice to know somebody likes my son,” said Dimitra. “Boris didn’t.”
“I always liked Lance,” said Omar, not to be left out of the liking-Lance competition. “The boy has taste in rugs. I remember you bringing him down to my store when he was ten, Dimitra.”
Had Dimitra and Omar been friends for that long? Elena wondered. Fifteen years or so?
“His favorite was the most expensive carpet in stock,” said Omar admiringly. “Amazing taste in a child.”
Lance had turned red because the conversation was being carried on rather loudly. “Is the ceremony over?” he asked the bearded priest.
“No,” said Dimitra. “You and me, we gotta each put a flower on Boris’ casket.”
“The hell with that,” Lance muttered. Then he glanced nervously at Leo and Elena, changed his mind, and rejoined his mother on the family side of the grave. Lance accepted a rose, studied it, and said, “This came from the bush he wanted to dig up and throw away.”
Dimitra gave her son a twinkling smile and dropped her offering on the casket, which looked to Elena as if it was the cheapest one Dimitra could find. No doubt, Omar knew where all the casket bargains were. “Goodbye, Boris,” said Dimitra as Lance flipped his rose onto his father’s coffin, whose only other decoration was the trampled V.F.W. wreath. “We won’t be seeing you anymore, Boris,” said the widow.
“There’s always the afterlife,” the priest pointed out reprovingly.
Dimitra shrugged. “If anybody’s going to hell, it’s Boris Potemkin, and I don’t plan to join him there. Now, everyone’s invited to my house tonight for the wake.”
“We don’t have wakes,” said the priest angrily. “That’s an Irish custom. If you wanted a wake, Mrs. Potemkin, you should have held it before the burial and contacted a Roman Catholic priest for the service.”
“Vodka and cabbage rolls,” said Dimitra with blithe indifference. She looked around at the staring crowd. “So if that’s it,” she announced, “T. Bob and I have to get over to the senior citizens center.”
“So do I,” Harmony murmured to Elena. “I’m late.”
Elena wonde
red what the big rush was. Maybe T. Bob and Dimitra had signed up for Harmony’s weaving class.
Dimitra went on tiptoe to kiss her son on the cheek. “Eight tonight,” she said. “I’ve saved you twenty frozen cabbage rolls to take home.”
“Aren’t we going to a movie this afternoon, Dimitra?” asked Omar, and got a possessive glower from T. Bob Tyler.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Omar. I can’t. We’ve got big plans at the center,” Dimitra replied.
What big plans? Elena wondered. A shuffleboard tournament?
“Maybe this evening. No, that’s the wake. How about tomorrow afternoon?”
“Tomorrow it is,” said Omar. “If I feel myself drifting into sleep, I’ll give you a call to reschedule.”
“You do that, dear.” Dimitra kissed him on the cheek and T. Bob Tyler muttered, “Come on, Miz Dimitra. We’ve got us important things to do.” With that, the mourners dispersed.
“I’ve never seen a funeral like that,” said Leo as they climbed into their unmarked police car. “Anyway, I’m free to get back on the case. Maybe we should split up.”
“I was thinking of hitting the pawnshops,” said Elena. “We ought to make an effort to find the czar’s medal. If we don’t try, some defense attorney will claim it was a robbery-murder and we ignored the possibility in order to make an easier collar.”
“Like it wasn’t the son or a jealous boyfriend with a quick temper,” Leo agreed. On the way over, Elena had told him about her conversation with the Otero County sheriff the day before.
16
Friday, October 1, 11:30 A.M.
Elena dropped into her chair at headquarters. Brief consideration convinced her that the department didn’t need a report on the bizarre funeral of Boris Potemkin, since she hadn’t learned anything there. Picking up her ringing telephone, she said, “Detective Elena Jarvis.”
Pete Amador at Central told her that he and his partner had canvassed her neighborhood looking for anyone who had seen Omar Ashkenazi the afternoon of the murder. They hadn’t found a murder witness, but they had found a little boy peeking in Ashkenazi’s window. “He was watchin’ the suspect, who was lyin’ on a rug, snorin’,” said Amador. They had caught up with the child, whom Elena identified as Beanie Montoya, in his back yard across the alley, but Beanie had been too frightened to say anything. “My partner thought it might be better if you talk to the kid yourself in case he was lookin’ in your guy’s window on Monday afternoon.”
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