From Herring to Eternity (24 page)

He shook his head slowly.

“But Strong knows because Detective Daniels traced the case to you forensically.”

He nodded slowly.

“But you’re in the clear, legally, as long as there isn’t some distant relative who comes calling,” I said. “No estate, no trial. No trial, no theft.”

“Guilt without guilty,” he said. “I ain’t proud of what happened with the tune, but it was an accident I tried to fix. And the major talking point here is I ain’t no killa.”

I believed him. His story fit the facts from top to bottom, including why Lippy was so huggy toward the trumpet case on the morning he was killed.

A short silence followed. It felt like the moments after the last out in a losing ball game, when the stress kind of wafts away leaving a hole. I didn’t know where to turn for a next step.

“You got a ‘game over’ face,” he said.

“Funny. I was just thinking that.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t bow out,” Fly said. “You know anything that I don’t? That can help me?”

“Not much,” I said.

“You know who else was here, the regulars?” he said. “I don’t.”

I told him who was here. He didn’t know any of them except for Mad.

“You got a sense about any of ’em?” he asked.

I shook my head. “There doesn’t seem to be any connection anywhere. Even Barron, who’s an unscrupulous
schmuck
, doesn’t have a role here.”

“You sure Tippi got to town when she said she did?” he asked.

I frowned, hard. “That’s harsh.”

“Sibling rivalry. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I don’t see it. And then what did she do, poison herself?”

“A partner-in-crime could’ve,” he suggested. “Maybe there was an insurance policy or an inheritance from parents.”

“I really don’t think so,” I said. I wasn’t close to being anything like an honest-to-goodness profiler, but I knew women and I knew shock and awe in their eyes. Tippi was a lady in pain, not necessarily from Lippy but from life. The demands of her profession were there, of having to smile while she did God-knew-what to God-knew-who. If she was gunpowder, she would have blown at some john or film producer. Anyway, what could Lippy have had that he wouldn’t have given her freely?

I told Fly I’d think about the various players and let him and Dickson know if anything occurred to me. I thanked him for coming.

He touched his fist to his heart. “I don’t like being muscled, but I appreciate that you came to me and not the fuzz.”

We both smiled. I was still half waiting for him to drop a shiv from his sleeve or pull a zip gun from his pocket, or for the other peeps of De F Chicken to pour from the Caddy. It both pleased and relieved me when he pulled from the curb without a spray of fire from an AK-47.

I sat there in the silent deli, cocooned by darkness and realizing that I had practically nothing to go on now. If not Fly, then who did kill Lippy and Tippi? And, just as perplexing, why?

Chapter 24

Speaking of the dinowhore—a description that both offended me and made me chuckle, a schizophrenic combination—Candy Sommerton was waiting for me when I arrived at the courtroom, nine forty-five on Monday morning.

“Ms. Katz, how do you think you’re going to do in there?” she asked.

We were on the lower steps. I kept walking. Candy was hovering close behind her microphone while her camera operator hovered close behind her, both of them undulating as we made our way up the stairs. They reminded me of one of those Chinese New Year’s dragons, complete with the big eyes and protruding tongue.

“I think it’ll either go for me or against me,” I said.

Candy was unfazed. Either sarcasm was lost on her or she was bulldog enough to want a useful sound bite. Probably both.

“Do you feel your actions are impeding the educational growth of our young or standing up for religious freedom?” she pressed.

“Neither,” I replied icily.

“How can you say that when you’re denying students access to a historical site while allowing witches to worship there?”

She succeeded in pissing me off. I knew I shouldn’t, but I stopped.

“That’s not a question, it’s an accusation.”

“Are you saying it doesn’t apply?”

“I’m saying you’re a dino
meeskite
,” I said, and walked on. Normally I’m not one for name calling, but she really didn’t leave me another exit.

As I entered the security area, I saw that Reynold Sterne was in line, looking concerned and self-important, standing right behind Andrew Dickson III, who looked composed and self-important. They both gave me the briefest glance as they emptied their pockets and went through the metal detector. By the time I got inside, they were seated in the gallery. Joseph Bushyhead was already present.

The judge entered promptly at ten and our “matter” was called by the clerk.

“I’ve read the relevant police and medical accounts of the assault on Ms. Katz, and have decided that until the police investigation into this matter is completed there will be neither a university or Wiccan presence on the property.”

That drew instant objections from both attorneys. The judge was ready for them; she whammed her gavel once, hard.

“The security of our citizens must take precedence over any other consideration, and as we do not know whether either of these parties or some third party was responsible for the home invasion and attack, until the picture is clearer, this order will be in effect.”

“Your Honor, may a representative of the university address the court?” Dickson asked.

“There is no point, since the order has been given and recorded.”

“But Your Honor, the ruling taints by association the spotless record of a highly regarded institution—”

“Which, I see, hired a criminally charged mixed martial artist as a security guard for the property and did not directly disclose to the victim in this matter that it possessed a key to her home. Does the statement address these questionable actions?”

“We did not know they would be presented for rebuttal.”

“Then you may rebut them one week from today when we reconvene on this matter,” she said. The gavel came down again. The next case was called.

It wasn’t a total victory for me, but it was definitely a setback for everyone else. A week without trespassers suddenly seemed like the greatest gift in the world. It didn’t mean that whoever blew toxins in my face wouldn’t be back, but it’s an imperfect world. Hopefully, that threat wouldn’t linger much longer.

I managed to avoid Candy Sommerton by waiting until Dickson had left. I had a feeling he’d go right for the camera to
kvetch
about the order. I hurried away, arriving at the deli just in time to help with the lunch rush. I still hadn’t decided what to do about Fly and the trumpet case, whether or not to tell Grant. There didn’t seem any reason to. Plus, I had promised Fly.

Thom was giddy with delight when I told her what had happened in court. Obviously, it wasn’t just my good news but Dickson’s bad news that pleased her. I already knew what my daily observation would be: that for some people, ecstasy is expressed by clucking like a
grogger
, a Purim noisemaker.

To my surprise—and to the surprise of the staff—the deli was packed. It was as if a bus giving tours of all the Jewish establishments in Tennessee had parked on my street. Only as the diners took their seats did I realize who—and what—it was.

They were students. And they were only ordering coffee. When that was finished, they ordered—ironically—more coffee, which is free. They just sat and drank and talked and texted and iPadded for an hour, forcing regular customers or actual tourists to go elsewhere. It was like Occupy Wall Street, but with an IQ.

“What’s going on?” Thom asked after the first round of coffees.

“I’m guessing Reynold Sterne had this ready to go,” I said. “When the ruling went against them, he had his university students ready to thank me.”

“And we will do this, like, every day,” said a short, plucky thing with stringy hair, critical eyes, thrift shop clothes, and a voice that twittered from somewhere in her nasal cavity. “It’s called civil disobedience.”

“Actually, it’s called a sit-in,” I said, “only with a cup of joe. And despite what
Dr.
Sterne may have told you, this will not be a daily occurrence. New store policy: refills are not free. Next new store policy: starting tomorrow, there will be a sign announcing a thirty minute limit during prime dining hours. Enjoy your java—what’s your name?”

“Kamala Moon.”

“Right. Sterne mentioned you. Your future depends on your digging up my basement.”

“It’s larger than that,” she said, standing her ground. “The advancement of knowledge depends on defeating inquisitors like you. We will find other ways to express ourselves.”

“And other places,” I said.

“You little brat!” Thom finally jumped in, her good humor having burned away.

“She’s not a brat,” I said. “She’s part of a generation that was never taught ‘no.’ She’s the result of a political mindset that told her she’s entitled to take from
me
because she’s a student with no money. But if she knows her history—and I hope she does, being educated and all, I hope she realizes that her kind always loses. They lose because you can’t build anything by stealing bricks, occupying the site, or damning the landlord. You want to hurt me? Open a deli across the street.” I came closer to that stern, unforgiving face. “But that takes effort, not just a short-term snit or an easy condemnation.”

“You don’t know me well enough to call me names!” She shouted that, silencing the other voices in the deli. “We want to work! We want to learn! You’re the one who’s stopping us!”

“I’m not stopping anything,” I said. “You want to dig in my den?”

“We want what we were promised.”

“Well, kid, life threw you a
legal
curve,” I said. “Nothing is guaranteed. I asked you a question.”

She took a moment to replay it in her angry little brain. “Yes. We want to dig, to expand our understanding of—”

“Then stop
hockin me a chinick
,” I told her. “Buy the damn place, tear it down, do whatever the hell you want.
That
gets you access.
This
gets you nothing.”

“But we may not find anything!” a voice said from one of the tables. I turned to look at a young white man with dreadlocks and the best urbanwear daddy’s credit card could buy. “We need to know that.”

“
Boychik
,” I said, “you pays your money and you takes your chances.”

“Amen,” Thom said.

Kamala Moon’s sneer was instantaneous and audible. “That’s
your
take, old lady.” Her eyes rolled to Thom. “Old
ladies
.” She looked back at me. “You talk about entitlement but, like, you need to make a profit or you won’t help us. That’s part of the past, too. We know about it and we don’t accept it.” She moved in closer now. We were practically eye-to—well, my chin. “We will dig there, I promise. One way or another, education will defeat your greed.”

And then I saw it. Her height about a forehead less than mine. A puff of toxin, a blur, and then me hitting the cold, weedy front lawn. She saw that I saw it and she smiled.

The young woman, with ice in her lips, leaned close to my ear and said, “Prove it.”

I don’t know what chilled me more, the act she had committed or the confident, unremorseful, cold-bloodedness with which she took ownership of it.

I stepped back. I smiled. “Not a problem.”

“Liar,” she replied, remaining stoic as you please.

I turned to the student with the dreadlocks. “Tell you what. Let’s see who has the courage of their convictions. Your archaeological team can have free access to my den. Come and go whenever you want for as long as you want.”

“What’s the catch?” the young man asked.

“I love it,” I said. “I’m supposed to give freely but it’s a ‘catch’ when I ask for something from you. Here it is: I want spit. From each of you.”

The dining room was even quieter than before. The few patrons who were not students were riveted, like they were in the audience of Court TV.

“Like, what are you even
talking
about?” Kamala Moon asked.

“The NPD pulled some DNA from my boiler room,” I said. “That’s where the intruder was on the night I was attacked.” I paused. “I’m sure all of you know my home was invaded and I was assaulted. Or didn’t your ringleader tell you that?”

There was a low murmur. Obviously, the covert action had been need-to-know.

“I think it was a pair of students who had access to my door key and I want to know who they were,” I went on. “Those two individuals will probably spend the first year of the dig in prison for criminal trespass and aggravated assault . . . but your sacrifice will give the rest of the students access to a potentially valuable historical site.” I looked around at two dozen or so blank young faces that gave me very little hope for the future. I stopped on the pale face surrounded by knotted braids. “So? Do we have a deal? Everyone spit into a cup and you can start jackhammering tonight.”

There were a few “sures” and “yeahs” and a couple of “is that legals” but only granite silence from Dreadlock Boy and Belladonna Girl.

I turned back to the little
moisheh kapoyer
sitting at the table. He was the weak link. He was probably the dope who went downstairs and pretended to be a Civil War laborer.

“You look like you want to spit,” I said. I plucked a napkin from a holder and turned my cheek toward him. “Go ahead. Right there. Unless you’ve got something to hide. In which case, with all these witnesses testifying that you refused, the court can demand it.”

“Don’t spit—because you’re not an animal!” Kamala told him.

“That’s right,” the young man said to me. “I’m not.”

“No,” I said. “Just a coward who won’t own up to his actions.” I gave him another few seconds. He looked away. I turned back to the ringleader. “How about you?”

She hesitated. “I’ll give you my spit.”

I moved in so the others couldn’t hear. “Because you weren’t inside my house. You didn’t perspire on my floor. You just blew poison in my face. You don’t get charged unless your buddy cracks and rats when they pin this on him. And they will. So here’s the deal. You do a quick about-face with the prof. You and your friends. You find other projects for your theses. You convince him to leave me alone. Maybe—
maybe
—he and I can work something out without a gun to our heads . . . or belladonna in our faces. Do that or do time.”