Night Secrets (9 page)

“Just to get a feel for it,” Frank told him.

Tannenbaum drew in a weary breath. “Okay, I'll arrange for you to take a look.”

Frank stood up immediately.

Tannenbaum looked at him incredulously. “You mean, now? At this hour?”

“It's the only time I can,” Frank told him. “I'm working something else during the day.”

Tannenbaum drew in a tired breath, then pulled himself out of the chair. “Okay, Frank, I'll give you the okay.” He smiled. “Why don't you go over now? The old lady may be awake. From the look of things, the Gypsies don't sleep much either.”

H
e arrived at the fortune-teller's storefront only a few minutes later. It was a two-story building and the upper floor was entirely dark. The fortuneteller's blue neon sign was dark as well, but he could see a faint light glowing through the light-blue curtain which still covered the front window.

He stepped up to the door, tapped lightly, then waited. He could hear footsteps as they neared the door, then stopped. The door did not open, and so he tapped at it again.

The door opened slowly, and through the small space between its edge and the jamb, he could see a single dark-brown eye.

“My name's demons,” he said. He quickly took out his card and held it up to the lone staring eye. “I'm a private investigator.”

The woman stared at him expressionlessly.

“You got a call from Manhattan North, right?” Frank asked.

The woman nodded silently.

“Well, I'm the guy they told you about, the one who was coming over.”

The old woman looked closely at the card, then turned toward him.

“I'm looking into the murder,” Frank said. “Trying to find out a few things about it.”

“You are not from the police?”

“No, just someone who's looking into the case,” Frank said. “Are you Maria Jacobe?”

The woman said nothing.

“If you're not, I wonder if you could tell me where I could find her,” Frank said.

“I thought it was the police,” the woman said. “I open only for the police.”

Frank smiled quietly. “If I could find her, I'd be happy to pay her for her time.”

“I open only for the police,” the woman repeated.

Frank took out one of the crisp hundred-dollar bills Mr. Phillips had given him the day before.

“I'd start with this,” he said, as he held it up to her.

The woman's eyes widened. “I open only for the police,” she said. “But also those who wish to know their fortunes.”

Frank nodded. “All right,” he said.

The door opened immediately, and Frank walked into the building.

The old woman was already in the other room, seated at the small table. “Please come in,” she said.

Frank swept back the red-beaded curtain and walked into the front room. He sat down opposite the woman and glanced through the second curtain and into the interior room where he'd first seen the Puri Dai. The large wicker chair still rested at the center of the room, along with the small black table beside it. The red candle was still there, as well, and beside it, neatly coiled, a gold chain and large medallion.

The woman glanced at the money, and Frank immediately handed it to her.

“Thank you,” the woman said. “Now, may I have your hands, please.”

Frank stretched them out toward her, and she turned them palms up and peered deeply at their criss-crossed lines.

“You are going to be very successful,” she said.

Frank's eyes drifted back toward the other room, concentrating on the medallion that hung over the table. It was very large, and even from a few feet away, he could follow its details, the flaming tongues which leaped out from its circular edges. It was made of brass, and at its slightly raised center there was an engraving of a scorpion.

“You will find much joy,” the woman said. She turned his hands over. “Much joy and happiness.”

Frank turned to her and drew his hands away. “I'm not really interested in my fortune,” he said impatiently.

The woman stared at him solemnly, but didn't speak.

“I gave you a hundred dollars,” Frank reminded her. “I have a few questions to ask, and I expect some answers.”

The woman glared at him. “If you are not from the police, I do not have to answer.”

Frank looked at her sternly. “You do if you want to keep that hundred-dollar bill I just gave you.”

The woman hesitated for a moment, then spoke. “I do not know what you are looking for.”

“I want to know what happened here yesterday,” Frank told her.

“You know about the murder,” the woman replied immediately. She shook her head mournfully. “I weep for Maria Salome. She was a good woman.”

“How long had you known her?”

“For many years we live together.”

“Alone?”

“But for the other woman,” she said bitterly. “She who is no longer with us.”

“The Puri Dai,” Frank said.

The woman looked at him, astonished. “How do you know about the name?”

“She gave it to the police.”

The old woman's face soured. She bent forward and spit on the floor. “Damn her soul,” she cried. “Damn her soul to hell for this crime.”

“Did you see her do it?”

She looked at him as if the question were absurd. “Her hands were full of blood,” she said. “And Maria Salome, she was dead.”

“Why did she do it?” Frank asked.

The woman shook her head. “She is strange, this woman.”

“There must have been a reason.”

“She did not know her place.”

“What place?”

“In her blood, there was an evil thing.”

“Her blood?”

“She did not do her task.”

“What task?”

“She was born to know her place.”

Frank stepped forward slightly. “But she didn't?”

The old woman didn't answer.

“Did she fight with the other woman?” Frank asked.

She didn't answer.

“Were they related at all?”

She hesitated an instant, then shook her head.

“So how did they meet?”

The woman's body stiffened. “I do not know,” she said. “I know only that the Puri Dai, that she did not know her place in this house, and that when this happens, things can be lost, things can be ruined.”

“What are you talking about? What things?”

The old woman looked at him determinedly. “There are things a
gorgio
cannot know.” She held up the hundred-dollar bill and waved it defiandy in his face. “Things a
gorgio's
money cannot buy.”

“What things?” Frank demanded.

She sat back, her eyes suddenly very frightened. “You must go. Even if you remained, you would learn nothing.”

Frank did not move. “I want to see where the body was,” he said flatly.

She glared at him with eyes that looked half-enraged and half-terrified.

Frank stood up immediately. “And I want to see it now,” he said very firmly. “A hundred bucks buys something, even here.”

The old woman glanced longingly at the bill in her hand. “To see, that is all?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” the old woman said wearily. She got to her feet slowly and led him through the second curtain and into the adjoining room.

Frank stopped at the small table and picked up the medallion. “What is this?” he asked.

She glared at it resentfully. “There are no questions,” she said sharply.

“It's some sort of symbol, right?” Frank asked.

She walked in front of him, hunching her shoulders slightly as she passed him.

“Is it the symbol of the Puri Dai?” Frank asked coldly.

She wheeled around to face him. “You must not speak of her again,” she said. “She is dead to us.”

Frank picked up the medallion. “Why did she take this off?”

The old woman snatched the medallion from his hand. “She is dead to us.”

“She was wearing it before the murder,” Frank persisted. “Why did she take it off?”

The old woman shook her head. “You must go,” she said.

Frank remained in place. “Where was the body?”

The old woman drew in a deep, resigned breath. Then she pointed to a door which opened onto another room. “There is where I found her,” she said.

She walked over to the door immediately, but did not step through it. Instead, she stopped and pointed inside. “There,” she said.

Frank walked over to the door and looked in.

It was a large room, and three beds were arranged head to end along its enclosing walls.

Frank walked to the center of the room, then turned slowly, surveying it from one angle to another.

“All of you slept in here?” he asked.

The woman nodded quickly, then crossed herself.

Frank turned away from her to look at the room again. To the right, he could see the chalk outline of the old woman's body as the police had drawn it across the unpainted wooden floor.

“Blessed among women,” the old woman repeated, hugging herself gently now, as if against a sudden blast of cold.

Frank walked into the room and looked at the chalk outline. The body looked as if it had fallen forward, then lain face down across the floor.

“Go, now,” the woman said.

Frank looked back at her. She was standing very stiffly in the doorway, her long hair flowing chaotically over her shoulders, her hands clenched in front of her, the long red nails scratching at her wrists.

“You have seen,” she said. “Now you must go.”

Frank didn't move. “Where were you when you first saw the body?”

“Here,” the woman said, pointing to the right.

“What did you see?”

“The Puri Dai was over her,” the woman answered, “standing over here.”

Frank stepped toward her instantly. “You saw her? I thought you didn't see her. That's what you told the police.”

The old woman shook her head brokenly. “It was a lie,” she said softly. “I saw the Puri Dai.” She shivered. “With my own eyes, I saw her.” She drew in a long, trembling breath. “The razor was in her hand, like this.” She lowered her arm to her side. “In her hand, like this.”

“Did she see you?”

“She stared into my eyes.”

“So she was facing you?”

“Face-to-face,” the woman said.

“Standing where?”

“In the doorway.”

Frank stepped over to the outline. From its configuration, he could tell that she had lain on her stomach, her arms stretched out over her head, her legs drawn up near her chest. He studied the outline a moment longer, then took out his notebook and drew it on a blank page.

“You must go now,” the woman said to him.

Frank paid no attention to her. Instead he let his eyes move up the chalk outline, beginning at the feet, then sweeping upward, past the head then beyond it for a few feet to where there was a second closed door at the far end of the room. “What's in there?”

The woman didn't answer.

Frank pointed to the room. “What's in mere?” he repeated.

The woman stood in place.

Frank walked over to the door and opened it. Inside there was a small table and on it a small painting of a woman, clothed in purple, her head covered with a dark hood. She wore a medallion identical to the one in the other room, and her feet were sunk deep in foamy green waves, as if she were wading in the sea. There was a small rectangle of uncovered foam rubber, which looked as if it had simply been shoved into the room for storage.

Frank stepped back out of the room, closing the door behind him, his eyes absently moving up the door until they settled on the hook-and-eye latch, which had been screwed loosely into the outer doorjamb at just about the height of his shoulder.

For a moment he stared at the latch, then turned to the woman. “What was that for?” he asked.

“To hold the spirit in,” the woman answered, then smiled eerily as if the words themselves were part of a code which only she could comprehend.