From Herring to Eternity Page 3

  “Oh, just call it an impulse,” she said. “Visit with some friends. How have you been? Still at the same church?”

  “Still at Baptist,” Thom said, stepping back. “Nothing changes in my life.”

  “Be grateful for that,” the big woman said.

  “You still in Atlanta?” Thom asked. “With that—that fella?”

  “Fred, the Luciferian? No, that was just a ‘thing.’ I’ve been in New Orleans for five years now.”

  “Great town! What do you do there?”

  “I give all kinds of palm readings in the French Quarter.”

  “How many kinds are there?” Thom asked. “Like, for people and dogs and cats?”

  “Just people, dear.” Smiling sweetly, Ginnifer took Thom’s left hand gently in her right and held it palm up. She turned with surprising grace and raised her thick left index finger. ”There’s chiromancy, which is the reading of lines,” she said as she teasingly traced a delicate path along Thom’s skin. Then she opened her own left hand and lightly grasped the sides of Thom’s hand from above. “Next there’s chirognomy, a divining form that uses the shape of the hand and fingers to see into the future. And, finally, I use dermatoglyphics, the study of fingerprints.” She touched the tip of her index finger to Thom’s own.

  Thom snapped her hand back as though she’d been burned. It took a moment for her to recover her poise.

  “I see,” Thom said. “So—you make a living at that?”

  “Lord yes,” Ginnifer said. “Folks do things on vacation they would never spend money on at home. And then there are the devout locals. People walk past palmistry shops in Nashville every day. But in New Orleans, the city of mystery—it’s very different there.”

  Bending, Thom gave her old acquaintance a brief parting hug and returned to the cash register. Her eyes were a little bit wide and her mouth was a lot open. Thomasina looked as though she’d seen a g-g-ghost, as the old cartoon used to say.

  “That was very strange,” Thom whispered. “Almost like she was trying to seduce me.”

  “I noticed. Who is she?”

  “Ginnifer Boone,” Thom said. She stood with her back to the table, and not just to muffle our conversation. I got the feeling she didn’t want to look back. “I’ve known her since elementary school. Ginnifer was booted from our church eight, nine years ago for selling spell-casting paraphernalia on eBay. I was the only one who spoke up for her at a meeting of the board of trustees. I said we could only redeem her if she was a member of the congregation, but they were afraid she’d pollute the younger, impressionable members and expelled her.”

  “If she was a Wiccan, why was she even a member of your church? That’s some pretty heavy Christianity you’ve got there.”

  “Her family’s been devout since the eighteenth century. Their roots go back to Kentucky and Daniel Boone.”

  “You mean the Daniel Boone? ‘Daniel Boone was a man, yes a big man—’?”

  “Stop right there. And, yes, the frontiersman. Ginnifer was always a little odd and I think she wanted to sever her relationship with the church for a while. This was her way of doing it. It was also her way of coming out to her family as a Wiccan.”

  “How’d that go over.”

  “Poorly. That’s why she moved to Atlanta to live with some devil worshiper.”

  “What happened to her eye?” I asked.

  “I don’t exactly know,” Thom said. “There was a malpractice suit of some kind.”

  “Did you know she was friends with Mad?”

  Thom shook her head. “I should’ve made the connection, though. Ginnifer got those eyeball tattoos right before she left. It’s part of some local sect she belonged to—Mad, too, I guess. I never found out much about it.”

  “So you don’t know if they’re good witches or bad witches.”

  “Ain’t no such thing as a good witch,” Thom said. “It’s all voodoo and black arts. The whole time I was standing there just now, I heard Jesus whispering in my ear, Get thee from me Satan!”

  I didn’t tell Thom I found that a little creepy, too. I also didn’t argue about how there’s bad in every religion, from the Inquisition to the jihad. I did wonder, though, whether Ginnifer being here was really as innocent as just coming for a visit. Mad was upset about the earth being out of whack. Maybe Ginnifer was here to try and help set things right—whatever that might entail.

  Luke pinged that Ginnifer’s order was ready. I took it to the table and left the check with a smile. As I turned to go, Ginnifer grabbed my hand. I didn’t wrench it away but gave her a look.

  Before I could say anything, Ginnifer placed a business card in my hand and let me go. I looked down at the card. There was a cell phone number printed on it, but no name. Beneath, written with what looked like a fork tine dipped in dried ketchup, was a time: 7:30 p.m. from your office.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Please call,” Ginnifer said.

  “Why?”

  Mad said as she walked past, “The earth wishes it.”

  Chapter 3

  I don’t know what the earth wished, but I wasn’t thrilled by the arrival of coral-lipped reporter Candy Sommerton and her news crew from WSMV Channel 4. She entered solo, her too-high heels clacking on the tiles. She strode in as I was headed back to the office.

  “Ms. Katz!” she said, waving after me.

  I stopped, sighed. The blonde and I hadn’t had any contact since our altercation over the last murder that happened around here. That had ended with me destroying TV equipment, apologizing later, and writing a check for nearly two grand. Which was worth it.

  “Hello, Candy,” I said, turning slowly.

  “Hi-hi. I understand that this was the last stop Lippy Montgomery made before his tragic demise.”

  “That’s correct,” I told her.

  “Would you mind coming outside and telling us what he was like when he left here?”

  “He was full,” I replied.

  Sommerton smiled sweetly and took a deep breath—a celebration of the power of twelve-weight thread, given the size of her chest and the tightness of the blazer which strained to stay buttoned. Talk about full.

  “Yes, of course he was,” she said. “But—would you just mind saying that on-camera? And also what he ate and what he may have said to you or the waitstaff.” She looked around. “I’ll put them all on TV.”

  “Candy, I really haven’t time for this,” I said. “I have to earn back the money I paid the last time we—spoke.”

  “Time is a so, so precious thing,” she agreed. “But it would be good publicity for your deli.”

  “Actually, it would be good bad publicity,” I said. “People would come to gawk. Again.”

  “And order,” she added. “Food. Paying customers.”

  “Coffee,” I corrected her. “Not worth it. So, sorry, Candy. I can’t help you.”

  “Ms. Katz, you know—you really do want me as a friend.”

  “No,” I said as I entered my office. “I don’t.”

  “Your uncle was very cooperative!”

  “Then light a yahrtzeit candle for him, because you’ve got me now.”

  I went back to my computer to get the phone number of Professor Sterne’s office. As I looked it up, I tried not to think about the utter strangeness of the morning. Even by our farmisht standards, this was one morning for the scrapbook.

  And through it all, I could not help thinking again about poor Lippy Montgomery. I was glad that what turned out to be his last meal was, at least, a happy experience. How had he described it?

  Uncommonly tasty.

  That was nice; poor guy.

  There was a direct line to the archaeology department at the school, and I read up on Professor Sterne before I called. There was a photo beside his biography. He looked, in a word, self-impressed. He was about thirty-five, with long black hair over his ears, thick black eyebrows, square jaw, thin lips set in a half smile. He was wearing a purple turtleneck and tweedy
blazer. He looked like the kind of confident, slightly standoffish but charming professor every female student fell for, from which a handful were selected and eventually discarded.

  I should know. I had taken that short, dumb, tragic journey myself back at NYU with Professor Levey.

  “Okay, Professor Sterne,” I said as I called the number. “Let’s see you sweet-talk me into not giving you a hard time.”

  I mentally reviewed the message I would leave on his voice mail. It was a pointless exercise since he picked up on the second ring.

  “Ms. Katz,” he said in a surprisingly high but pleasingly southern voice. “How odd! I was just about to call you!”

  “And here I am,” I said stupidly.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am this project came to your attention the way it did,” he said. “That had to be quite a surprise.”

  “To hear that my finished basement is about to become the American Troy?” I said. “You might call that a little unforeseen. Why were you about to call?”

  “There are insurance forms that indemnify the school against certain types of damage—”

  “Wait—that indemnify you?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Some folks try to take advantage of a little jackhammering by claiming vibration damage to electrical circuits or pipes—”

  “You’re going to jackhammer my basement?”

  “Ms. Katz, we have to, in order to penetrate the concrete slab. I’m sorry, but this was all discussed with your uncle. The room will be double-sealed in polyurethane sheets to contain the dust—”

  “This is only during the day, right?” I asked.

  “That will depend on the size of the volunteer staff, how many trenches we have to dig, and how many wooden supports we have to insert in those trenches to prevent them from collapsing.”

  “So this could go on round the clock,” I said, dumbfounded.

  “Which is one reason we urge impacted individuals to relocate,” he said.

  “You say that like leaving your home for a year is nothing!”

  “It isn’t nothing. But it is necessary.”

  “Like a loch in kop,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, a what?”

  “A hole in my head.”

  “Ms. Katz, there is more than just the research at stake here,” he said. “Lives and careers hang on it. The doctoral dissertation of one of my students, Kamala Moon, depends on completing this research.”

  “Your concern is touching,” I said. “Are you shtupping her?”

  “What?”

  “You’re not even bothered by any of this, are you?” I went on.

  “Given the historical importance of the site and the relocation we are offering? Frankly, Ms. Katz, not very much.”

  I was willing to bet that if someone discovered a diary saying that my bubbe had camped here, they wouldn’t bother moving a dog house.

  “Listen,” he said, “I didn’t want to start our association this way—”

  “We aren’t ‘associated.’ I’m being bullied and manhandled.”

  “Fine. If you are, belligerence is only going to make it worse.”

  “How can it be worse? Patrol dogs? Land mines?”

  “Be serious,” he said.

  “I’m very serious, Mr. Sterne—”

  “Doctor.”

  It took me a moment. When the left-field word filtered through my anger, revealed itself to me, I literally came to a complete stop—verbally, emotionally, physically. That was all he had to do just then—interrupt my very important concern with something trivial and self-centered. When my momentary paralysis ended, I cracked down the phone. If I’d been on my cell phone, it would have been in at least two useless pieces.

  I got up, because I didn’t want to remain seated. I looked down at the man’s photo-face, which was still up on the computer. I was calm now, as I said to that arrogant digger of long-lost latrines: “The earth is not happy, Doctor Sterne, and neither am I.” I looked at the ketchup-inscribed card lying on my desk, the one Ginnifer had given me.

  I absolutely would be calling at seven-thirty. I went back to the dining room.

  One of the last people I wanted to see just now, apart from Dr. Sterne, was Detective-no-snide-emphasis Grant Daniels. But there he was, my former lover, overdoing the “I’m here strictly on business” thing by not asking for me. He was talking to Thom.

  “What’s up?” I said, strolling over, doing my own version of the we’re-platonic dance.

  Our eyes met but neither of us greeted the other by name. I thought first names would be a little too informal and surnames would have been too formal.

  “I’m here about Mr. Montgomery,” he said. “There was a receipt in his pocket. He had breakfast here.”

  “Herring platter,” I said. “What does that have to do with what happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Grant replied. “That’s why this part is called ‘an investigation.’”

  Ouch. There was the first I-was-dumped-by-you-so-I’m-responding-with-sarcasm barb.

  “Did he talk to anyone that either of you can recall?” Grant went on.

  “Lippy wasn’t very sociable,” Thom said. “His music was his only real voice. Did you ever hear him play?”

  “Occasionally, in the street,” Grant said. “Did you notice anyone watching him?”

  That got my attention. “Why? I heard someone hit him—a random thing.”

  “I’ll ask the questions,” he said.

  Ouch again. Barb two.

  “I wasn’t really paying attention,” Thom said.

  I just shook my head once. That was all he was getting from me: bobblehead.

  “Did he seem unusually anxious?” Grant asked.

  Thom shrugged. I shook my head once.

  “Do you remember who else was here at the time?”

  “It was breakfast rush,” Thom said. “The usual crowd plus Mad Ozenne. The Wiccan.”

  Grant wrote the name in his notepad.

  “Robert Barron, the hunky ex-Marine,” I contributed.

  Grant wrote that down, too. He did not react to my description and I was instantly sorry I gave it. I was taking the bullying of Doctor Sterne out on him.

  “Did you notice anyone eyeballing the trumpet case or happen to see anyone with it after the incident?” Grant asked.

  Ah. That was the reason for the third degree. Someone must have made off with it after the attack.

  Thom shook her head.

  “Lippy seemed very protective of it.” I spoke softly, a little bit of a peace offering. “But then, he always did.”

  “So nothing different today?”

  “No.”

  “Thanks,” Grant said. That was for my thaw, not for the information.

  “I saw the horn,” Thom said. “When someone said, ‘He’s dead,’ I went out and looked. It was still in his hand.”

  “It’s the case I’m interested in,” Grant said. “Did you see that?”

  “I did not,” she said.

  “So this is a case case.” I couldn’t resist.

  Thom made a face. Grant did not respond.

  “Who waited on him?” Grant asked.

  “A.J. had the counter. He sat there,” I said, pointing. “Barron was on the right side, Nicolette Hopkins on the other. She’s a mail carrier.”

  “Did he talk to anyone?”

  “Me. We spoke when I adjusted the price of the platter, right before he left.”

  “What was wrong with the price?”

  “He didn’t realize it had gone up,” I said. “I lowered it.”

  “I’d like to talk to A.J., if it’s convenient.”

  “Sure,” I told him.

  A.J. was out back on a cigarette break. I went and got her. When she went inside, I followed part way, poured coffee, then stood outside, near the Dumpster, thinking—first, about Grant, and how I couldn’t blame him for being annoyed at how abruptly I’d ended things. It wasn’t anything about him, per se,
it’s just that we weren’t exciting together. After a day of crime scenes, maybe that was good for him. After a day of knishes and farfel, that wasn’t good for me. It was something I’d only noticed when I met the local slumlord, Stephen Hatfield. That man was rotten to the bone, but charismatic. I didn’t want to date him, but I wanted him.

  Then I thought about the trumpet case, probably because I didn’t want to think about the damaged part of me that preferred a crooked bully over a decent cop. When Lippy did his street musician thing, he usually had the case open, at his feet, with a few bucks in it to show passersby that their contributions were welcome.

  An opportunist would have just grabbed the cash, not the case, I thought. Unless they wanted a crime scene memento, maybe to sell on eBay. Stupider things had been done, I told myself, then looked around. Like surrounding yourself with the smell of garbage and stale cigarettes instead of going out front.

  But I didn’t want to be with anyone and I didn’t want to go back to my office where I had to deal with the residue of my talk with Sterne. I sipped coffee and looked at a cornhusk that a bird must have pulled from the trash.

  And then Grant came out the back door. He was wearing a plain blue off-the-rack blazer with khaki trousers. White shirt, yellow tie. He looked like what he was: a sweet guy without airs.

  “That was pretty awkward in there,” he said as he came toward me.

  “A little,” I smiled thinly.

  “I didn’t know whether I should come out—”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  He smiled. “I just wanted to say that as long as people keep dying around you, I’m going to keep running into you.”

  I laughed a little. “It isn’t me. The earth isn’t happy.”

  He looked at me curiously. I explained what Mad had said, and added—by way of a kind of excuse for my crabbiness—what Sterne had done.

  “Gee, I’m sorry to hear about that,” Grant said. “The dig, I mean. I’m not sure I’d put much credence in what a witch has to say.”

  “Funny,” I said, “she was a lot more real than that putz.”

  “You want me to look into zoning regulations for a loophole? They might be violating sound codes, EPA standards—”

  “Thanks, but I need to handle this myself.”