Butchers Hill (23 page)

"Mrs. Weinstein!" the
receptionist said with the chirpy insincerity common to those who dealt
with Gramma. "We're all ready to take you back to
the shampoo girl."

"You didn't give me one
of those Russians, did you? I hate it when they talk that gibberish
around me."

"We have you with Lisa
today."

"I've never had her.
Isn't she the one who snaps her gum?"

"She won't,"
the receptionist said, her smile becoming more and more of an effort.
"I'll speak to her about it."

"Why can't I have
Wanda?"

"She's with another
customer."

"Then put me with Francie. I
always liked her."

"She left to work at a salon in
Mount Washington."

"Probably running for her
life," Tess said under her breath.

"Don't
mutter," Gramma said. "If you have something to
say, say it."

"Be nice, everyone,"
Judith pleaded. A whistling Uncle Donald wandered away, as if he
didn't know this trio of querulous women, and developed a
sudden fascination with the hair accessories in the display case by the
front door.

"Let's just forget the
whole thing," Gramma said suddenly. "I
don't like the idea of someone new touching my
head."

"But you've had
Lisa," the receptionist said, a little desperately.

"Put me down for next Wednesday.
And make a note: no Russians, no strangers, no gum-snappers. I want
Wanda, you understand. Wanda for shampoo, Michael for my set. Donald,
bring the car around. We'll just have an earlier lunch than
we planned at S'n'H."

Uncle Donald jumped, as if he were a
twelve-year-old boy again. Judith smiled feebly at the glaring
receptionist, while Tess stared at the ceiling.
One
big happy
, she thought.

Even with Gramma along, it was nice to be
back at S'n'H, as the old-timers all referred to
the Suburban House restaurant. S'n'H was a
sanctuary, a windowless, timeless place with desserts to die for and
placemats with supposed-to-be-funny Yiddish translations. Oivay, for
example, was translated as April fifteen, a bris was "getting
tipped off," and a goy was defined as one who buys retail.

Her breakfast long forgotten, Tess ordered
chicken noodle soup with kreplach. ("Kosher-style
ravioli," according to the menu.) Gramma decided on a potato
pancake, while Uncle Donald chose cheese blintzes and a side order of
herring. Judith wanted nothing more than an iced tea.

"That's right,
Judith," Gramma said approvingly. "You'll
keep
your
figure."

That was the cue for Uncle Donald, who acted
as the peacemaker in those rare moments he realized there was peace to
be made. "Has your lawyer finalized the division of that
property yet, Mama? If you have any trouble with any of the government
agencies involved, you just let me know."

"Not to worry, it's
almost done. I'm having a crab feast next Wednesday night and
we'll have a little celebration then, sign all the papers
together." Even kosher Jews ate crabs in Baltimore, as if
there were some unwritten exemption in the dietary laws.
"That's why it's important for me to go
back to the beauty parlor before then. Can you take me next week,
Donald? I know how hard it is for you to get away from work."
Not for Judith, Tess noted, who actually did work at work. Hard for
Donald, who didn't really do anything.

"A crab feast in your
apartment?" Judith asked. "But I crabs are so
messy, Mama, you really need to do them outdoors, with picnic tables
and newspaper."

"I know. I thought we'd
do it at your place. You have such a nice yard. And if we do it
outside, you won't have to clean. Working as you do, I know
it's hard for you to keep on top of the house
cleaning."

Time for Tess to jump into the cross-hairs.
Conversation with Gramma was a little like running through a
sniper's alley, each family member taking a turn as the
target.

"Did you subdivide the land so
each one has his or her own parcel, or are you transferring the deed so
we're all listed as the owners?"

"One piece, so it's all
for one, one for all. My children and grandchildren are going to have
to learn to get along eventually."

A new complaint. Hand it to
Gramma—at an age where most people declined to take on
anything different, she was always open to new grievances.

"We all get along okay,"
Tess said tentatively. Gramma was spoiling for a fight this morning.
The skirmish at the Beauty Palace had only whetted her appetite.

"You're hard on Deborah,
Theresa Esther. She thinks you don't respect her because
she's just a full-time mother and you're Miss Big
Britches Private Eye, getting written up in the newspaper."

"Did she
say
that?" Tess was surprised. She thought she and Deborah,
intense competitors during childhood, had agreed to an adulthood truce.
They may not approve of one another, but they didn't call
attention to it.

"No, but I can tell. I have a
sixth sense about these things."

"Right. And I bet you tell Deborah
that I'm, I don't know, jealous of her because she
has a husband and a baby, while I'm
‘just' a spinster with a struggling business. Does
your sixth sense pick that up as well?"

"Mama, did you see
Hecht's has a sale on the hose you like so much?"
That was Judith, trying to get Gramma's scope trained on her
and away from Tess. "Would you like me to pick some up for
you this afternoon? As long as I've taken the day off, I
might as well put it to good use."

Gramma held her hand up at her only daughter
like an impatient traffic cop, her eyes still fixed on
Tess's. What had Treasure Teeter called that move?
Doin'
the Heisman
.

"There's still time to
take your name off that deed, Missy. What do you say to that?"

Tess had much she wanted to say to that.
Go
ahead, take it away from me, you bitter old woman. Give my share to one
of your beloved china springer spaniels. You can't hold me
hostage with money. You're mean and you're petty.
Poppa probably died because he couldn't take living with you
any more
.

Uncle Donald started whistling another show
tune, "Some Enchanted Evening." Judith simply
looked miserable, even unhappier than she had when Tess had glimpsed
her in the parking lot outside her grandmother's apartment
building. But was the cause of her unhappiness her mother or her
daughter?

"I say"—Tess
took one last glance at Judith's
face—"that I'm sorry if I sounded
impudent and of course I'm grateful for your generosity. Can
I bring anything Wednesday night?"

A plump, vaguely familiar woman was waiting
on Tess's doorstep when Tess returned to her office.

"Miss Monaghan?" She
wore a kelly-green suit with a red silk blouse. Merry Christmas, Tess
thought, but she was touched at the same time. The woman, whoever she
was, considered visiting Keyes Investigations important enough to dress
up.

"That's me."
Tess unlocked the door. The moment the key was in the lock, she could
hear Esskay unfurling herself from the sofa, rushing across the floor
with a great clatter of toenails. The dog sounded pretty
impressive—she could be a Rottweiler or a pit bull, except
for the lack of bark—and the visitor cowered behind Tess.

"The only thing my dog will do is
lick you to death," she assured her visitor, who edged
through the door, trying to keep Tess between her and the dog.
"Now what can I do for you?"

"Don't you remember
me?"

Tess hadn't, at first. She had
made the mistake of looking at the clothes, not the woman's
face. "Keisha Moore. Donnie's mother.
Where's Laylah?"

"My sister-in-law's
looking after her."

There was an awkward silence, Tess waiting
for Keisha to say why she had come, Keisha apparently waiting for Tess
to start asking her questions.

"Is there something I can help you
with, Keisha?"

"I heard, on the news, that the
man who killed my boy may have killed some other children. The ones you
were looking for."

Shit. Tess had counted on the television
stations not catching wind of the police department's
suspicions unless Beale was officially charged. Either they had more
evidence than Tyner thought, or someone at the police station had
leaked the story, hoping to turn the heat up on Beale. As a convicted
killer, he was a tough man to libel, alas.

"That's just
speculation, Keisha."

The green suit was much too tight, and when
Keisha sat down, her shiny red blouse seemed to surge out of the top.
It was hard for Tess to believe that all this show was just for her.

"Well, if those other ones are
dead, who gets their money?"

She certainly was focused. For five years
now, Keisha Moore had tried to find a way to turn her son's
death into a payday, and she hadn't given up hope there was
some cash to be squeezed out of it.

"I regret to tell you there
isn't any money for anyone. I thought there was, but it turns
out things were not quite as they seemed."

"I heard the girl got her money.
It's all over the street."

"You didn't know
anything about her when I stopped by your house," Tess
pointed out.

"Yeah, well I just
didn't make the connection, you know? I was thinking of some
little girl. How much she get, anyway?"

"All Destiny got was a pretty ugly
death."

Without realizing it, Keisha was holding the
tip of her tongue between her teeth, as unselfconsciously as a child.
The tongue disappeared, and her eyes suddenly looked sly.

"Did you help him kill her and her
brother, the one who burnt up?"

"Jesus, no. What a horrible thing
to ask."

Keisha was unrepentant. "Well, you
asked me some pretty rude things when you came to my house. Why was
Donnie in foster care, as if that had anything to do with anything.
What did I do to lose him? You were worse than any cop or social
worker. That's the worst thing about being poor, having to
answer people's goddamn questions all the time. ‘
You
own a car? You got any money in savings? You got a man living with you?
Who's your baby's father
?'
I get sick of it, okay?"

"I can understand that."

"Huh. Like you ever had to answer
some nosy bitch's questions."

"I was on unemployment for a
while. Trust me, I answered my share of questions."

Keisha didn't seem mollified. She
slumped in her chair, chin lowered to her scarlet chest, glaring at
Tess.

"Do you need money,
Keisha?"

"You know anyone who
doesn't?" she countered.

"It's early in the month
to be running short."

"I had some…unexpected
expenses. There's a dining room set I put money down on. If I
don't make a payment today, I'm going to lose
it." So the Christmas finery was for the guy at the furniture
store. Tess didn't want to think about what Keisha might do
in lieu of payment. Jackie was right. She had never really known what
it was like to scrape bottom, or even how far down the bottom was.

"I might be able to help you out.
But first, I want to ask you some of the same questions I asked you
before. Only this time, I'd like some answers."

Keisha's eyes were amber, Tess
noticed. A cold, hard amber with a swirl of green at the center of the
iris.

"I'll get my dining room
set?"

"You'll get your
furniture," Tess assured her. "Now why was Donnie
in foster care?"

"I went off on an errand, up to
Atlantic City. I thought I'd be home that night, but there
was, like, an accident. When his teacher found out Donnie had spent the
night alone, the Social Service came and took him."

"A car accident? A
breakdown?"

Keisha squirmed a little in her chair, but
said nothing.

"If I call a friend in New Jersey,
am I going to find out you have a record?" Tess
didn't actually have any friends in New Jersey, but Keisha
didn't know that. It was plausible. Someone must have a
friend in New Jersey.

"I was a mule, okay? I was a mule
and I got popped."

"A mule?"

"I carried drugs for a man. I was
taking them to Atlantic City on the train, and they picked me up the
second I got off. The public defender up there got me off—he
asked for a lab test and it turned out the stupid-ass motherfucker had
put me on the train with a case of powdered sugar and quinine. But by
the time I got home, I'd been gone for a week, and they had
taken Donnie. He had to go to school and flap his big mouth about how
he didn't have no mama and he was living off cereal. Social
Services told me he couldn't come home until I took some
class about how to be a parent. I had two more classes to go when he
was killed."

"The man you carried the drugs
for—was he Donnie's father?"

"No." Keisha's
look told Tess that she found the question incredibly stupid.
"He was just some guy I was with for a while."

"What was his name?"

"Look, he's dead. What
you need to know his name for? He was a stupid, stone-ass junkie and he
ended up the way most junkies do. I may have tried to help him sell
some drugs, but I never took any."

"The guy you're with
now, Laylah's father—he's not part of
that life, is he?"

"Don't worry.
I'm not planning on being the same fool twice."
Keisha stood, her curves shifting again. She was like a big, walking
Jell-O mold of a woman. She opened her purse, a bright yellow bag
bigger than some suitcases. "You got any more questions, or
can I go get me my dining room set now? I owe $119 on it. You can just
round it up to $120 if you need to go to the ATM to get it."

"I said I'd get you
furniture. I didn't say it would necessarily be the furniture
you had paid down on."