The Violet Crow (27 page)

“Oh I doubt it. Jacob is a genius. And totally original.”

“So why don't you try it? I bet Rachel the Matriarch would've liked it …”

“Bruno, please! Stop! What are you getting at? Please take your fork out of my face, right now!”

“You were setting me up, weren't you?” Bruno's voice was low and menacing. “You had your friend put together a seder plate to see if I would recognize it—didn't you? You were going to write that I went out to lunch with you, ate a huge plate of gefilte fish from a jar and didn't even know it wasn't some fancy preparation your friend made up. Local-
shmocal
. You wanted to get even by making me look like some moron who's happy to pay $35 for a few lousy bites of Manischewitz. That's really low.”

“What are you saying? You're insane.”

“This meeting is over!” he snapped and stalked toward the door.

Peaches' anger reduced her to tears. “You horrible man,” she snarled. “I hate you!”

And with good reason. Not only did she miss out on dessert, but Bruno's abrupt departure meant she was stuck with the check.

Chapter 53

Lousy luck
, thought Bruno, as he drove back toward Gardenfield a few minutes later.
There were a few moments there when she and I were starting to hit it off
. He'd have to admit the Chief was right. And then there was the red string. “I can't believe it's authentic; I'm sure it was acrylic, not wool.”

Just then Bruno realized how hungry he was. That reminded him. He'd forgotten that Chris, the guy at Tano's, wanted to see him. What better way to turn his day around than with a cheesesteak? It seemed like a lifetime had passed already since the morning he got out of jail. He hoped Chris would still be there since the lunch rush was probably over.

He needn't have worried. “Hey, Bruno, where you been, you loser?” shouted Chris as he walked in the door. This was more like it: an island of sanity in a demented universe.

“Hey, Chris, make it the usual, with everything on it.”

Instantly he could smell the onions frying on the grill. “I been waiting for you to come by,” Chris called out over the roar of his exhaust fan. “You know those security guards that are all over town?”

“Sure. How could you miss them?”

“Right. Well. They keep coming by for lunch. You ever talk to any of them? No? Well, take it from me, they don't spikka-de English too good. And they're not Italian, because I told them to
va … a … fare … in … culo
, y'know, real slow and distinct, but they just smiled. Anyway, I think my steaks remind 'em of their home cooking.”

“Makes sense.”

“Yeah, I asked one of them for a patch for my collection. Since they work in security and all, they must have a shoulder patch. But I couldn't get through to him. I thought maybe you could explain it.”

“Why me? I don't speak French,” said Bruno. Knowing the parent company for NewGarden Biosciences was French, he assumed the security detail was probably French-speaking.

“Hmm,” mused Chris. “I wondered if they might be Israeli or something. They kept making this sound like they were clearing their throats. You know,
cha-kha-rissa
.” He made a series of horrible gagging noises deep in his throat. “So I figured it was Hebrew or something.”

Bruno laughed. “That's not Hebrew. It sounds like they were saying
harissa
with a Middle Eastern pronunciation. Harissa's hot sauce. Your steaks must remind them of couscous, which they usually eat with harissa. So that's French, not Hebrew.”

“How am I going to get them to give me one of their patches, then, if you don't speak French?”

Bruno thought for a moment. “You could try Peaches. You know her? P.C. Cromwell. I've heard her speak French and I can tell you, her accent is almost perfect.”

“That lady who works for the
Pest
?” said Chris. “She speaks French?” He served Bruno his cheesesteak, adding, “She doesn't come in here too often, but I know her. She's a piece a work.”

Chapter 54

The discovery of the underground passage at the Lenape King generated much excitement, as it seemed to promise a speedy conclusion. In fact, it was a brick wall. Everything pointed to Alison. But they needed to find her and, in spite of Bruno's regular monitoring, there were no solid leads to indicate where she was hiding.

Chief Black dispatched Michelle and Nancy to the Penn campus. Most of the faculty showed appropriate concern and were quite helpful. Each explained in turn that Alison had written to say she could not attend classes due to health reasons. But she was keeping up with the reading, downloading the lecture notes, and mailing in her homework.

The one exception was Professor Littlejohn in the Sociology Department. He actually had a lawyer sitting in on the interview with him. Instead of answering questions, he made a speech. Obviously, he was trying to evade the issue. Why? Did he know something? Or was he just another pompous blowhard? Nancy and Michelle ducked out at the first opportunity.

Then they caught a break. One of the professors, an odd, old duffer named John Barker, admitted that he remembered receiving the envelopes, but hadn't opened them. “They must be here somewhere,” he muttered as he riffled through a stack of papers piled on a credenza. “I teach a course in physics for non-majors,” Professor Barker explained. “We used to call it Physics for Poets but the students didn't like the look of it on their transcripts. Said they wanted something more robust. So now we call it Postmodern Physics: The Flow of Energy in the Cosmos and on Earth. In fact, it's the same course I've been teaching for 30 years. Physics is physics.”

He moved to another pile and continued rummaging. “I assign the papers, but I can't bear to read them. They're utterly idiotic.” His face brightened as he moved aside a stack of journals, “Ah, I think I've found them.” Michelle moved closer. She pulled out her latex gloves and evidence bags.

“Yes, here they are. Alison's are the ones in manila envelopes. She's quite attractive. I was sorry when she stopped coming to class …”

“Excuse me, professor,” said Michelle, gently moving him aside. She carefully extricated the tan envelopes while Nancy held open the bags to receive them. “You have been extremely helpful,” said Michelle, “and we are grateful.”

She turned to go, but Professor Barker detained her. He was blushing. “I'm a bit embarrassed about not reading the papers and I wanted to explain …”

“It's not necessary, Professor,” said Nancy gently. “You're doing your job the best way you know how. If the kids do some of the reading, learn a little about physics, you're way ahead of the game.”

“Yes, but …”

“Professor, I understand.” She fixed him with her steady green-eyed gaze.

Professor Barker struggled to maintain some of his dignity, but Nancy pressed the advantage: “Professor Barker? There's one more thing …”

“Yes. What is it?”

“You wouldn't mind if we took your fingerprints, would you?”

The Professor rolled his eyes toward the unfeeling cosmos. Why was he putting up with this, he asked himself, when he could be casting dry flies to rising rainbows? It really was time to retire.

Chapter 55

Icky's funeral was a notable affair—sort of like Woodstock, without the mud. Of course, everyone was dressed in black. Black T-shirts. Black leather. And a sprinkling of traditional black suits and dresses, worn by the minister, the Murphys, and their friends.

The day was exceptionally hot. The mourners were sweating profusely, which, somehow, substituted for tears. It was a graveside ceremony; people brought blankets to sit on, hampers stuffed with good things to eat and drink, and other goodies such as Icky himself might have enjoyed.

Jay Miller, Icky's friend since kindergarten, got things rolling with a Hendrix-inspired version of “Taps” played on solo electric guitar.

Then a young woman gave a soulful rendition of “Amazing Grace,” a cappella.

This was followed by “Amazing Grace” on the bagpipes. The inexperienced piper had trouble managing his breath, so the music came out in a herky-jerky, barely recognizable fashion, and some of the mourners started hooting.

Next, a bluegrass combo started in on an interminable version of “Will the Circle Be Unbroken?” on fiddle, banjo, and washboard. By now the crowd had moved beyond restive; they were downright hostile.

This was the moment when Icky's father decided to take control of things. “Why don't you all go home, you freeloading degenerates?”

Icky's friends had learned to ignore Dr. Murphy long ago and they responded with obscenities and threats. Someone threw a half-eaten cheeseburger at him. As Dr. Murphy retreated, the band segued into a bluegrass version of “Danny Boy.” The mob roared its approval and tried to sing along.

Standing in the back, Chief Black whispered to Bruno, “If this gets any worse, somebody's going to have to call the cops.”

Bruno was sulking. There was no sign of Alison. He hadn't wanted to drive in from Tabernacle, but the Chief had convinced him she might show up.

“Could that be her over there?” the Chief indicated the direction with a nod of his head. “The woman in the gypsy costume?”

Bruno squinted. The sweat was getting in his eyes and this was about the half-dozenth time the Chief had thought he'd spotted her. “That's no gypsy,” Bruno explained. “It's Alison's mother, impersonating Janis Joplin.”

Now it was Joe Kennedy's turn to give a personal remembrance of his friend. He couched his remarks in terms of a drug deal, praising Icky's character because he “paid his dues” and “gave good weight.”

Dr. Murphy razzed him repeatedly as an “insipid lout,” a “characterless reprobate,” and a “drug-crazed Neanderthal,” until finally Mrs. Murphy managed to pull him off to the side, where the two argued with some intensity.

Some of Icky's high school teachers said they regretted the fact that he had dropped out because he never fulfilled his potential. This produced a round of snickers from the recent graduates.

Finally, Mr. Joyce, the Unitarian Minister, got up to deliver his eulogy. He announced that he'd taken his inspiration from the plaque on the side of the building where Newton (Icky) had spent his last conscious moments. It seems that back in 1777, one Jonas Cattell had performed a heroic feat, not far from the spot of the tragic fire. Young Jonas had escaped the captivity of His Majesty's minions and run a distance of 10 miles to alert the commander at Fort Mercer that the Hessians were coming; the attack would come by land, not by the river, and he must turn his guns around. By this effort, Jonas Cattell enabled a revolutionary American army of only 300 to defeat a force of 1,600 mercenaries.

Why did he mention this? Icky could not have run 10 blocks, Mr. Joyce conceded, let alone 10 miles …

—“Yeah, but he could do 10 lines faster than anyone,” a voice interrupted, much to the mourners' delight.

Mr. Joyce gracefully acknowledged the witticism before continuing, “… and certainly, he was no soldier. Yet like Jonas Cattell, Icky was 18 years old. And he was also fighting long odds.”

“I know his middle name was Ichabod,” Mr. Joyce continued, his voice resonating as he neared his conclusion. “But I like to think of him as Icarus. He was the fair-haired boy who flew too close to the sun. He singed his wings and fell to his death: senseless, tragic, and premature.
But what a glorious figure he cut while soaring so high!”

Somehow these words silenced the hecklers. They knew it was utter nonsense, but at the same time, it was the right thing to say about Icky. It was exactly what they would have wanted said about themselves, if they had come to ruin due to their own stupidity.

As the crowd dispersed, Bruno and the Chief walked off together, scanning the crowd for Alison in disguise. No luck. She'd skipped the funeral.

The Chief quickly brought Bruno up to date. The manila envelopes Alison was using to send in her homework had all been postmarked “Gardenfield.” The only identifiable prints were those of Alison and Professor Barker. Chief Black had the force pulling extra shifts so they could stake out the post office and keep an eye on as many mail boxes as possible. He also had Harry researching the possibility of putting different types of ultraviolet powder in some mailboxes to try to narrow down where the envelopes were being mailed from.

Chapter 56

For the next week, Bruno stayed out in Tabernacle, tending to Maggie, going for long walks, watching the vultures circle, and trying to repair some of the damage to his trailer. He also checked in on Alison once or twice a day. She was invariably inside, in the same room where he saw her before, doing homework or indulging in sex fantasies. She seemed to Bruno omnivorous and insatiable. At first she seemed content to recall her greatest hits with Icky. Then she branched out to other men, famous actors, rock stars, and even a horse. Unbelievable. Eventually Bruno realized he was eavesdropping on her dreams.

Unfortunately there were never any details that could indicate where she was staying.

Finally, Chief Black interrupted this peaceful interlude. He called to say it was time to interview Rebecca Wales again.

Alison's mother retained her sunny optimism. They were sitting out on the screened porch, sipping lemonade as a series of cats came in and out at will. “Alison will be fine,” Mrs. Wales insisted. “I assume she's laying low until you discover the real killer. Isn't that what anybody would do? I know it's what I would do. And of course I wouldn't tell my mother where I was. Alison would have to know that you'd come here to ask me and she wouldn't want to put me in an awkward position where I'd have to lie.”

“That's very considerate of her, Mrs. Wales,” the Chief said politely. “But we'd really be in a better position to help protect her if we knew her whereabouts and could ask her some questions.”