The Haunting Ballad (26 page)

My colleague leaned in. “Why, yes…”

“Normally, if you were indicating a time, you wouldn't put a period between the number and the
A.M.,
would you?”

“No, lad, you would not.”

“Maybe it just means there was a slip of a typewriter key. Or…”

“Or maybe something more significant.” My friend's face broke into a smile. “Lee Plunkett! Ye observant seeker of truth. Well done, lad.”

It's possible I blushed. I probably should have acknowledged right then my debt to Miss Beddleton, my fourth-grade teacher. The truth is, had that dedicated educator not been so crush-inspiringly pretty, I would never have bothered to master the niceties of grammar. Under the scrutiny of her bright blue eyes, I'd learned to distinguish a colon from a semicolon, and how to spot a wayward period.

I attempted to follow through. “So, if it's supposed to be an actual period, that means the sentence ends as ‘Meet you at 10.'”

“If that's the case, then the requested rendezvous may not have been for the morning after all.”

“It may have been for ten in the evening.”

“Quite correct,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “Which is within the time interval when Lorraine died. Therefore, whoever typed that note may have been the last person to see her alive. For the very reason that—”

“You're going to claim that the person who wrote that note hurled her off the roof, right?”

“I don't claim anything. I merely suggest possibilities.”

“Let's backpedal a second. If the
A.M.
isn't indicating time of day, then it must stand for something else. Something like…”

Like what? I leaned back and began tapping my spoon in the empty bowl. The answer fluttered just out of reach like some elusive butterfly.

“Initials.” Mr. O'Nelligan snatched the butterfly. “A. M. might well be the writer's initials.”

“You think that's it?”

“I wouldn't bet my soul on it necessarily, but I'd say it's a fine possibility.”

“A. M.… Who could…? Wait!” I snatched up Cardinal's letter and waved it at my partner. “
M
for Meriam! Cardinal Meriam could have written
both
of these notes. Remember, we haven't learned his real first name. It could be Andrew or Arthur, for all we know.”

“Very true.”

“You know, it occurs to me that Smack Wilton might actually be of some use to us. Since Cardinal had been arrested in town, the police would have his name on file. His full name. I'll call the station. Smack probably wouldn't be working late on a Sunday, but at least I could find out when he'll next be in and leave a message.”

Mr. O'Nelligan stared off and drummed his fingers on the table. “Yes, Cardinal could be the one who composed the note. Of course, to fulfill the theory that the note writer killed Lorraine, Cardinal would obviously need to be in the Village—and not in Australia. It's possible, certainly, that he left New York right after Lorraine's death or that he never left at all. After all, no one we spoke to could confirm if Cardinal had ever really departed. It's also possible, I suppose, that he traveled overseas briefly, then returned to these environs.”

I was trying to keep this all straight. “Okay. So, let's say Cardinal Meriam is A. M. and he wrote the note asking to meet Lorraine at ten in the evening…”

“Of course, ten could still refer to the morning.”

“Don't confuse the issue! You're the one who wants to place Cardinal on that rooftop with evil intent.”

“I'm not sure I said that exactly.”

“Anyway, like you pointed out, he'd obviously need to not be in Australia in order to commit the crime. Unless Cardinal the Conjurer is such a slick magician and quick-change artist that he can be in two places at once.”

“So you accept now that there was indeed a crime?”

“For the sake of argument. Anyhow, what I'm trying to say here is—” I stopped midsentence, suddenly aware that I didn't know
what
I was trying to say.

Seeing my confusion, Mr. O'Nelligan offered a kind smile. “Yes, it's a complex case with many a twist and turn. It just occurred to me that in order for Mrs. Pattinshell's ghost song to be accurate, Cardinal must have departed
after
Lorraine's death. Because the song says that the man with the blood-red form is now off across the waves.”

“Precisely,” I said, not feeling precise about anything at the moment.

My brain was spared further overexertion by a loud crash from across the room. A distressed waiter stood surveying three shattered bowls of food that had slipped from his tray. Somebody wasn't getting their best-ever stew tonight.

Mr. O'Nelligan used the disruption to check his pocket watch. “I should be off in pursuit of young Master Hector.”

We paid up and parted. On my way to retrieve Baby Blue, I located a telephone booth and called up the police station. As luck would have it, Smack Wilton happened to be on duty.

He sounded fairly pleased to hear from me. “Hey, it's Buster's punk! Crapped out on that Cobble business yet?”

“Alas, no.”

Even as I said it, I realized Smack wasn't the sort of guy you'd want to use “alas” with. Clearly, I'd been spending too much time with a certain O'Nelligan.

“Yeah, well, it's your funeral, kid.” Smack's tone managed to blend a grumble with a grin. “So, what can I do you for?”

I put out my request for Cardinal's full name and anything else the records might provide. The police detective grunted several times as I was talking, whether in support or disapproval I couldn't tell.

“Think you'd be able to fill me in on that?” I asked.

“Hey, what am I, a contestant on
Twenty-One
?” Smack barked. “I fill in your answers so you can score points?”

“I was just hoping that—”

He spat out a laugh. “Don't sweat it. I'm just kicking your goat there.”

I wanted to ask if goat-kicking was a desirable thing but held back.

“Sure, I'll track down your guy for you,” Smack said. “Thing is, my shift's ending now and I'm heading home. Since these bastards got me scheduled for tomorrow morning again, I can dig through the files then. Okay, kid?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Hey, we got Wilton and Plunkett collaborating again, just like when your pop and I raised hell back in the old days. Pretty swell, huh?”

The swellest. I thanked Smack again, rang off, and resumed my walk.

As I was approaching my car, a tall, stooped man came limping toward me, a bulging sack slung over one shoulder. His unkempt hair, uneven shave, and overlayered clothes made me guess that the street was his home.

Without pausing, he fixed bloodshot eyes on me and hissed, “The world's a shadow!”

Somehow, the way things were going, that actually made sense.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

 

Yet again, with sunset rolling in, I entered the Café Mercutio. Stepping through the door had become a familiar little ritual. Candlelight, sawdust, and circus posters. The same as last night, I found an almost empty room. At one table, Kimla Thorpe sat alone drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. At another, two bearded young men were arguing politics in low urgent voices. Tonight, Ruby Dovavska was again the attending waitress.

She favored me with her thin sardonic smile. “Back so soon? Reconsidering posing for me, maybe?”

“Not at all.” I nodded toward the whiskered debaters. “Why don't you recruit those guys? You could get two for one.”

“It wouldn't be the first time,” Ruby said.

I blushed. “Where's your boss?”

“He probably won't be in till late. Sunday nights are pretty slow here. No music.”

An elderly woman in a trench coat and beret entered, and Ruby went to take her order.

I approached Kimla. “Anything of interest in the papers?”

She glanced up from her reading. “Only the usual confusion, crime, and sadness.”

“What about Little Orphan Annie? She's in there, too, isn't she? Annie always sees the bright side of life.”

Kimla smiled gently. “You're right, she does.”

“Remember now, that kid's even an orphan. Say, did Patch ever show up last night?”

“I'm not sure. I left Tim and Neil soon after you saw us. Knowing Patch, he probably staggered home at some god-awful hour, cursing or weeping or possibly both.”

“Have any of the regular musicians been by today?”

“Only Manymile, and only for a second. He stopped by just to say that he'd gotten a series of gigs in the Midwest and was hitting the road.” Kimla took a sip of coffee. “Any updates on your investigation, Mr. Plunkett?”

I nearly blurted out about Lorraine Cobble's ghost song but thought better of it. After all, Mr. O'Nelligan and I hadn't yet discussed if we wanted to make that piece of the puzzle common knowledge. Suddenly, one of the intense beards shouted out, “Trotsky, without question!” In response, his friend slapped the table, and across the room the lady in the beret laughed heartily.

The front door now opened, and in walked a young couple, one half of whom—of course—just had to be Byron Spires. Unsurprisingly, he had a lovely young woman on his arm, and, what do you know, it was a brand-new model. Just as Audrey had given way to Coco, Coco had yielded the field to a thin waif with blond bangs. Upon noticing me, Spires halted, spun his girl about, and headed back out the door. I followed.

I caught up with them just down the street and maneuvered to block their way. Spires sighed deeply and turned to his date. “Go back inside and grab us a table, will ya, Nicki? I'll be right there.”

Nicki didn't seem too pleased with being yo-yoed around, but she complied. Spires and I were mirroring our dance from the night before. He folded his arms across his chest and stared at me. This time he had no guitar and, by the look of it, no patience.

“Okay, so what the hell do you want?” he asked.

It struck me just then that I didn't really know the answer to that. What was my intention here, anyway? To shove him against the wall again? To apologize for last night's ambush? To further interrogate him about Lorraine? Or maybe to ask him what the blazes his secret was for enticing women … “So we meet again,” I said for want of anything better.

Spires maintained his stare. “Look, man, I'm just trying to exist. I don't want no agitation, and I don't want no enemies. Just trying to live and love like any beast on two legs. Like I told you last night, your girl digs you, not me. So we've got no quarrel, you and I, right? You want to drop by here sometime and hear my music, fine. Otherwise, you go your own way and I'll go mine. Nobody likes being hunted, friend. I'm gonna go live my life now. Happy trails.”

With that, Spires turned and headed for the Mercutio.

He never got there.

The gunshot echoed through the twilight like an angry shout. I saw Spires stagger and clutch his chest, and I caught a glimpse of someone standing just beyond us down the street. It was a man in a slouched hat and long black coat. Something bright flashed in his hand, and another shot rang out.

That's when the hammer struck the side of my head—at least that's what it felt like. Next came more sounds: shoes slapping concrete, agitated voices, a shrill whistle, and a low drawn-out moan. It took me a while to realize that the moan was coming from me and that I was lying sprawled on my back on the sidewalk, my face turned to one side. Something warm and wet was sliding down my right temple. My glasses had somehow remained on, and I could make out Byron Spires a few yards from me. He, too, lay crumpled on the sidewalk, the two bearded debaters leaning over him. He seemed very still.

Then a hand was resting on my cheek. Somehow I knew it was a feminine one. Carefully, my head was shifted so that I was now staring upward. What I saw was two sweet, beautiful faces, a single bright halo drifting high above them. I assumed they were angels, one light-skinned, one dark, who had come to guide me away. I felt deeply grateful. For a fleeting second, they took the form of Ruby and Kimla, their concerned faces silhouetted against the ring of a streetlamp. Then they became angels again, wonderfully radiant, and under their loving protection I slipped into blackness.

 

PART 3

Riddle Song

What is higher than a tree?

What is deeper than the sea?

What is sharper than a thorn?

What is louder than a horn?

            Heaven is higher than a tree.

            Hell is deeper than the sea.

            Hunger is sharper than a thorn.

            And guilt is louder than a horn.

—Traditional British ballad

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

 

When I woke in the unfamiliar bedroom, for a minute or two I thought I'd just had one of my crazy dreams—maybe was still having one. Then I felt the throbbing in my head and brought my hand up to touch the bandage there. Oh, hell. Right, the gunshots, the ambulance, the hospital. The fast-speaking doctor telling me I was lucky, damned lucky, that the bullet had only kissed my temple. Kissed it, that's what the doc had said. I remember thinking,
I've had better kisses.

I pushed myself out of bed and stood on wobbly legs. Morning sunshine slanted in through white lace curtains. There was a ton of white lace in the room, come to think of it. A woman's room. But what woman? Had my rattled brain led me into some sort of spicy intrigue? No. Clearly, I wasn't thinking straight. Then I remembered: Marguerite, Mr. O'Nelligan's Marguerite—this was her apartment. I'd been brought here last night after leaving the hospital. My clothes had been neatly folded and placed on a chair, but definitely not by my own hand. I could never fold anything that precisely, but Mr. O'Nelligan undoubtedly could. I got dressed and went in search of him.