Husbands And Lap Dogs Breathe Their Last (10 page)

It was only a hunch, and one that Cummings expected would lead to nothing, but good investigation requires leaving no details unexplored. For this reason Cummings went to Omurtag Farm after breakfast. It was located on the edge of Horeb. Its brightly painted sign, hung over a large iron gate flanked by old stone walls, announced that it was both “organic and biodynamic.” Cummings had some sense of what “organic” meant but had no idea what a “biodynamic” farm might be. He looked up both words on his smartphone. As he suspected, “organic” referred to a lack of use of pesticides. “Biodynamic” referred to a holistic approach to agriculture, which Cummings took to mean a consideration of actions and outcomes. For example, chemicals applied to kill weeds in the fields might have an impact on the cows that grazed nearby.

The gate was open, and Cummings drove through. He continued down a winding dirt road, arriving in about half a mile at a series of connected, whitewashed buildings in a little house/big house/back house/barn configuration. This was a common way in which New England farm buildings were expanded over time. It promoted efficiency by connecting the buildings together to allow for access while protecting their inhabitants, human and nonhuman, from the region’s severe winters.

Cummings parked near the barn and got out. He saw a young woman feeding chickens in a large enclosure and approached her.

“I wonder if you can help me? I’m here to make an inquiry about someone who may have purchased dairy products.”

“You’ll need to talk to Anastas. He should be in the barn.” She pointed to a large outbuilding a few acres away.

Inside the barn Cummings found a swarthy man of middling age and height. He wore a T-shirt that read “Horeb — black fly capital of the world” and had shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair and an unkempt beard that descended to his stomach.

“Are you Anastas?”

“Yes,” he said with a significant accent that was difficult to identify.

“I’m Cummings Flynn Wanamaker. I don’t believe we’ve met. I lived in Horeb for a few years.”

“I see.”

“Have you lived here long? I can’t place your accent.”

“Bulgaria.”

“Really? How did you end up in New England?”

“I fall in love with
Moby Dick,
then I find out nobody hunts the whales no more. Meanwhile I emigrate.”

“I see,” Cummings continued. “I’m here to ask about one of your customers. Do you remember a man named Chess Biederman? Here’s his picture,” he said, displaying the image in the newspaper article he’d found in Chess’s office.

“I know this name. Why is this?”

“He’s dead. His body was discovered a few days ago.”

“Why do you ask about this man? He did not die from our cheese.”

“I don’t believe so, although if he had it would have been a
feta accompli
,” Cummings said, unable to restrain himself. “I’m simply trying to learn all I can about him.”

Anastas thought for a moment. “I do not recall him. You can ask my wife.”

“Where would I find her?”

“We have little store in front. I take you.”

They walked to the main building and went in through a side door. Inside, in what was once a barn, there were refrigerator and freezer cases of products for sale along with bins of seasonal vegetables. Cummings glanced inside one of the cases and found several varieties of cheese.

A woman who looked remarkably similar to Anastas, except that she lacked a beard, sat on a stool beside a cash register.

“Galina,” Anastas said, “this man is here about man found dead.”

“Do you remember Chess Biederman?” Cummings asked her. He showed her the newspaper photograph.

“Yes, I know him. He is here once or twice. He come to buy our milk and cheese for party for his workers. Big order. Last fall, I think.” Galina replied. “This is also what I tell the other man.”

“Someone else was here asking about Chess?”

“Yesterday. From the police.”

“Thank you for your time,” Cummings said, moving toward the door. Before he could reach it, it opened.

A tall, thin man came in. He was in his sixties, had bright white hair, a wildly tie-dyed T-shirt, a wilder beard that descended in chaotic straggles to below his belt, and pink and white striped sunglasses. He was Howard Oliver, a local artist and proprietor of the Maine Ephemera Museum. Cummings had met him once or twice during his time in Horeb, but he was sure that Howard Oliver wouldn’t remember him.

“Cummings,” Howard said with some surprise, “how nice to see you! I thought you’d moved away.”

“Good morning, Howard,” Cummings responded, impressed by Howard’s memory. “It’s nice to see you.”

“Anastas. Galina. Don’t you look well!” Howard said, greeting them. “I was thrilled that you phoned!”

“I get what you come for,” Galina said, disappearing into another room. Moments later she reappeared with three umbrellas. These were covered in the usual Stalinist color palette: drab and dingy. She handed them to Howard and said with pride, “My sister send these from Romania just to put in the museum.”

“What a gift! What a gift!” Howard effused, taking the objects. “Along with the umbrellas your brother sent from Russia, Ukraine and Georgia, and your other sister sent from Bulgaria, our Eastern European umbrella cover collection will be world class!”

Overhearing this, Cummings imagined Ernestine rolling her eyes at the very idea that umbrella covers were worth collecting, but of course she was not the sort of woman who would be so rude as to roll her eyes.

In the afternoon Cummings returned to Deuteronomy’s house and reported on his activities.

“I’m not sure I learned very much that’s useful. There were some odd scratches on the side of the boat.”

“Odd in what way?”

“They were large and perhaps a quarter of an inch deep. It was difficult to imagine what might have caused them.”

“They could be the result of Elektra’s steering,” Deuteronomy suggested. “I regret that we occasionally become intimate with the rocky coastline of Maine.”

“That’s possible,” Cummings agreed. “Other than that, I found some personal papers I think you’ll want to see.” He handed the list to Deuteronomy. He skimmed it.

“This reflects our discussion last fall, although he’s added a few cases I didn’t mention. None of them are obscure, just some additional much-heralded KGB antics.”

“I see,” Cummings responded. “There’s also one other matter. Honestly, I don’t know if it’s significant or not. I found some dairy products in Chess’s refrigerator. I couldn’t recall if you said he was allergic to cow’s milk.”

“I didn’t say. I don’t know.”

“In any case, they came from a local dairy, Omurtag Farm. I went over there and asked if they knew Chess. They remembered he had purchased items for a party for his employees; they remembered it because it was a big order. So even if he was lactose intolerant, that explains why leftovers might have been in his kitchen.

“I was going to follow up with a few additional questions, but I didn’t get the chance. Howard Oliver showed up, collecting umbrella covers for his museum. The owners of Omurtag Farm are from Eastern Europe, and apparently relatives from the former Soviet Bloc have been sending them over.”

Cummings said this humorously, assuming Deuteronomy thought the Ephemera Museum was as silly as he did. But Deuteronomy responded in a serious, even grave, tone.

“Did they specify where in Eastern Europe?” he asked, picking up Chess’s notes for his book.

“Let’s see. Romania, Bulgaria, Russia and perhaps several other countries.”

Suddenly, still holding Chess’s list, Deuteronomy rose. He walked quickly toward his room.

“Is something the matter?” Cummings asked.

“I have to check a few files. I’m not as organized as I once was. This may take some time. I’ll telephone you.”

“I’m only in Maine until tomorrow.”

“I understand. Go now. Go!”

Elektra showed Cummings out.

Odin, who was not normally gloomy, seemed sullen when he picked up Cummings at the airport.

“Is something wrong?” Cummings asked finally after several minutes of silence.

“I didn’t want to tell you on the phone.”

“Tell me what?”

“Business travel is down. Multiverse Air is cutting back. Jim called me into his office today and told me I’m being laid off. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll manage.”

“I don’t see how. You’re barely making any money, and they’re offering a severance package of only six weeks’ salary.”

“I’m looking for a job and consulting work.”

“But you’re not finding anything.”

“That could change. Anyway, if we have to, we can take money out of our retirement savings.”

“Then what will we retire on?”

“I have no idea, but look at the positive. After this recession no one’s going to be able to afford to retire ever again!”

Cummings said this in an attempt to lighten the mood, but Odin didn’t laugh or even smile.

“That was a joke,” Cummings said. Then, trying to sound reassuring, he added, “We’ll figure something out.”

Chicago Pagan Pride was always held on a Sunday at an Arts and Crafts mansion, Caldecott House, in the suburb of Oak Park. Caldecott House was designed by one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s students as a private residence for a wealthy grain merchant and his family. During the Depression a downturn in family fortunes resulted in an accumulation of unpaid real estate taxes. The town of Oak Park acquired the building just before World War II. It was expensive to maintain. To keep the wolf from the ornately carved oak doors, it was regularly rented out for receptions and events, including Pagan Pride.

Cummings stopped at the registration area and picked up a program of the day’s events. Workshops would be presented on investigating ghosts, ritual practice, divination techniques, assorted magickal traditions (spelled with a
k
to differentiate it from stage magic) and various pagan religious paths. To Cummings, this was an entirely new world.

The house sat on a large grassy lot, where rings of vendor booths had been arrayed. Most were informal affairs with plastic tables inside simple tenting.

Cummings strolled among the vendor booths and assessed the crowd. The attendees seemed commonplace, if drawn to exotic hair tints, kilts, capes and heavy black eye make-up.

The vendors seemed to represent a mix of pagan sub-genres. These included vodou and hoodoo, which Cummings learned were not the same thing. (The former is a religion, while the latter is a folk magic tradition.) There were Asatru (practitioners of the Nordic traditions); Tarot card readers (which originated in Italy); Traditional Witchcraft devotees (known as “Trad Craft”) and many others. The goods for sale included amulets, talismans, crystals, candles, wands, swords, cards, books and even pagan holiday guest towels. Perusing these, Cummings learned Halloween could be referred to by its Celtic name, Samhain, pronounced SOW-in. Cummings also saw blank journals, mystical paintings, ritual clothing such as might be suitable to dress the witches in
Macbeth
and many items designed to interest cats, although there was nothing for dogs.

Cummings attempted to engage vendors in conversation, but his lack of content knowledge made it apparent he was an outsider. Further, his attempts to probe, such as by asking, “What is it you find engaging about all of this?” didn’t seem to result in meaningful responses. Instead he received friendly but cold smiles, or nervous giggles, or piercing looks that informed him he’d violated etiquette.

He concluded there was nothing much to see and little more to learn, so he did not stay long. As he left he pondered why mystical leftovers from earlier times continued to be so appealing. An engagement with the supernatural was understandable in the centuries before the triumphs of the rational mind, but what was the fascination of the superstitious now? Wasn’t the universe, as understood empirically, mysterious enough?

The next morning, Odin went off at his usual time in order to be at the unemployment office when it opened. Cummings got up early to make Odin breakfast. It didn’t improve Odin’s mood, but at least he was sent into the world with a full stomach.

Cummings was washing the dishes when there was a polite but firm knock at the front door. One of Chicago’s finest flashed his badge and introduced himself as Officer Arnold Bailey.

“You’re Cummings Flynn Wanamaker, right?”

“Right.”

“May I come in? I’d like to talk to you about the Hickok death.”

“Certainly,” Cummings said, directing the visitor to the sofa. “You’re investigating it as a murder?”

“I know your name. You’re that detective guy I read about in the paper, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should know I can’t answer that question. I understand Ms. Hickok was speaking to a group called the Mathers Society when the fire broke out. How long have you been a member?”

“I’m not a member. I’ve never attended a meeting before. I came with a friend, Luther Bannockburn. He wanted to attend out of curiosity. Also, he teaches music at a local college. Someone who gives a lot of money to his department is a member of the Society. Her name is Anunciación Hollingberry.”

“Right,” Officer Bailey responded, implying he was familiar with the name. “Could you spell your friend’s name?”

Cummings did. Officer Bailey asked for Luther’s contact information, which Cummings provided.

“Did you know the deceased?”

“No.”

“Never met her before?”

“Never.”

“What about a man named Otto Verissimo?”

“I know him.”

“How do you happen to know him?”

“He’s asked me to speak to him. He has some concerns about Ms. Hickok’s death.”

“Just so I’m clear, you’re an amateur, not a licensed private detective, right?”

“Right.”

“I assume you know you can’t become a licensed private detective in this state unless you’ve worked in law enforcement?”