Husbands And Lap Dogs Breathe Their Last (13 page)

Tom seated Cummings on a plush Victorian settee and offered him some ice tea. As he went to get it, Cummings looked at an array of objects on a tea table in front of the sofa. Some were small Steampunk-inspired objects, such as a dragon made of gears. There were also polished and unpolished stones of various sizes and types and an assortment of items with obscure signs and sigils that identified them as probable amulets and talismans.

After he set a tumbler of tea in front of Cummings, Tom coughed into the same lace handkerchief he’d used at Mathers.

“You must excuse me,” he apologized, “I’m just getting over a cold.”

“I understand,” Cummings responded. “I’m not sure how to address you. There appears to be a mistake on the Mathers contact list. You’re listed as Queen Victoria but with two real names, Jules Verne and Tom Daniels.”

“Actually my real name is Jules Verne. No one believes me, so I go by Tom Daniels.”

“Is that so? Are you a descendant of Jules Verne?”

“He was my great-great-great uncle.”

“These are interesting,” Cummings said, indicating the objects on the tea table.

“Oh, yes. I’ve collected them over the years. I started when I was an undergraduate. They help me in all manner of ways.”

“Do they? For example, what is this one?” Cummings asked, pointing at random to a sigil-covered object.

“That’s a Seal of Jupiter. It brings luck and opportunity.”

“And this one?” Cummings said, pointing to another.

“That is a bind rune. It’s Norse. Its purpose is to protect against enemies.”

“Do you have many enemies?”

“No more than most people.”

“Perhaps you can tell me something about the Craddock Brooch.”

“The what?”

“The piece of jewelry that Surendra was wearing when she died.”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

A vacuum cleaner started in an adjacent room.

“I must apologize,” Tom continued. “My cleaning person, Glenda, is here. She always comes on Tuesdays. Usually I go out while she’s working, but I didn’t today because of this cold.”

“Have you been a member of Mathers long?” Cummings said, speaking over the noise.

“I’ve been in Mathers for a long time,” Tom said, also speaking louder. Cummings observed the veins bulging in Tom’s forehead as he did so. He seemed to be exerting himself even to engage in conversation.

“I’ve known Otto even longer,” Tom continued. “We met in college. He’s been a great friend. He’s helped me with my writing. Most people think I’m a trust fund dilettante, but he’s always taken me seriously.”

“What do you write?”

“I’m working on a serious historical novel, but I also write Christian erotica for pocket change.”

“Is that a literary genre?”

“Yes. There’s a formula: torrid sex followed by repentance, baptism and the Rapture. My publisher tells me the demographic is twenty-five- to thirty-five-year-old white, married, born again moms who live in trailer parks.”

“What can you tell me about Surendra that might be helpful?”

“Not very much, I’m afraid. I barely knew her. She wasn’t very friendly. I always thought she was shy.”

“Did you notice that she had any particular conflicts with anyone in the Mathers group?”

“No.”

“All right then. Thank you for your time.”

“That’s all?”

“I believe so,” Cummings said, getting up and heading for the door. As he did so, he noticed two white paper bags from a chain drug store lying stapled shut on a side table. He wasn’t able to read the labels.

Anunciación Hollingberry lived on Lake Shore Drive, known affectionately by the locals as LSD, where the availability of street parking was scarce, and the cost of garage parking was titanic. Reflecting on his tenuous economic circumstances, Cummings made sure to get a receipt from the garage so he could bill the expense back to Otto.

Anunciación’s apartment was gargantuan; one practically needed binoculars to see the far wall from the main entrance. The flat was on a high floor with many windows framing an expansive view of Lake Michigan and was furnished primarily with eighteenth-century American furniture.

“Windsor chairs, aren’t they?” Cummings said, pointing to a pair.

“How do you know that?”

“I lived in Maine for a few years.”

“They’re reproductions, but no one in the Midwest knows the difference, don’t you know. Chicagoans appreciate only two types of décor, Arts and Crafts and Mid-Century. Honestly, they can’t tell a Queen Anne settee from Marie Antoinette’s bed pan.”

Aesthetics, and the cultural history and dictates that went along with it, was not an area in which Cummings had any particular passion or knowledge. Still he nodded, not wishing to appear stupid.

“Would you like a sherry?” she continued. “It’s Portuguese and very dry, as arid as the great dunes of the Sahara, don’t you know.”

“When we met at Mathers, you were telling me about your mother,” Cummings said after Anunciación had delivered his drink.

“Yes. She was a ballerina with a passion for stalactites.”

“Were you raised in Europe?”

“Only for a time. Mother married an American military officer, and we went to live in Manhattan. Mother used to say that if he were a cocktail, he’d be one part gin, two parts money and three parts bastard.

“It was during this time that I discovered Mister Balogh, a lovely Hungarian gentleman who taught astrology classes in Greenwich Village. This infuriated my stepfather. Then dear mama was run over by a taxi outside of Bendel’s, and my stepfather sent me to a convent school in the Dakotas. That didn’t last long. I was expelled for fortune telling. Shortly thereafter, my stepfather died of apoplexy. I arranged a lovely funeral mass for him. I asked the stone mason to carve a wisp of poison ivy on his headstone. I wanted to be absolutely sure that God would recognize the son-of-a-bitch. Then I moved to Chicago, where a few months later I met my late husband, Alfred, who died when I was only twenty-seven. He was a drunk, but at least he left me a few dollars. Did you ask me a question?”

“About Surendra,” Cummings interjected.

“Surendra. Yes. She was a very private person. I barely knew her, but I adored her. It’s my sweet nature, don’t you know.”

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill her?”

“Kill her? You don’t think she was murdered?”

“Yes, I do. So do the police.”

“But she burst into flames!”

“Spontaneous combustion is unproven. I know it’s difficult to imagine someone committing such a horrible murder, but it appears someone did.”

A few minutes later Cummings made his excuses and moved on to his next appointment. This was with Mandrake Kinnaird.

“How well did you know Surendra Hickok?”

“I be standin’ me ben at the Mathers fuid queue, and she be ahin me and we begin aschmoozing ‘bout me Toby jugs.”

“I’m sorry. Could you repeat that, please?”

Eventually, through a process similar to the parlor game Charades, Cummings came to understand that: (1) Mandrake had met Surendra in the buffet line at a Mathers meeting, (2) they did not know each other well, (3) they had a brief conversation about Toby jugs, whatever they were, which (4) Mandrake collected. Later Cummings looked up Toby jugs on the Internet and discovered that these were pottery objects, often in the shape of heads, first made in England in the eighteenth century.

“I was never actually a member of the Mathers Society, though I’m sure many of the regulars thought I was,” Rutley Paik told Cummings when he visited him. “I attended a lot when I was married to Therese because she wanted to go, although sometimes I couldn’t make it because I was working. I’m a fireman. I went to this last meeting only because she invited me.”

“But you knew she was a member?”

“Yes.”

“Did she speak to you about her Mathers activities?”

“Do you mean while we were married? Some, but she didn’t say anything deep—I mean, anything worth repeating now that might explain ...” He paused for a moment, emotion making it difficult to finish the sentence, then continued. “... help explain what happened to her.”

“What about after your divorce?”

“We were friendly, but we went our separate ways. We weren’t that close when we were married. That’s why we ended it.”

“I understand she was unfaithful to you.”

“I’m not the jealous type. There were real problems. We weren’t good for each other.”

“In what way?”

“Neither of us was much of a talker. You put two people together who don’t know how to say what they need to say, you’ve got yourself a real problem.”

“Can you tell me anything about the Craddock Brooch?”

“What about it?”

“What exactly was it?”

“What do they call it, a reliquary? That’s the word. You know, like the remains of saints in churches, only this one was pagan. It was a piece of that Craddock woman’s leg bone. It was removed after her death and set into a pendant. Creepy, huh? It was supposed to heal people or something. Total nonsense, if you ask me, but you know how it goes when you’re married. Discretion is the better part of keeping your mouth shut, or whatever that saying is.”

“Do you know where Therese got the brooch?”

“At an auction, I think.”

“When?”

“I don’t remember. Sometime in the last five or six years.”

“Do you know if she sold the brooch at auction herself and then purchased it back?”

“No way. She loved that thing. Anyway, why would somebody do that?”

“The brooch was sold twice at auction during the last few years. I’m eliminating possibilities. I don’t suppose you know who the previous owner was?”

“No idea.”

The next afternoon Cummings visited the home of Surendra Hickok in Forest Park. Sequentially, Forest Park is the second suburb heading west from Chicago from Oak Park. Unlike Oak Park, Forest Park is what would have been called middle class in the decades of the twentieth century, when the middle class was still thriving. Its downtown, Madison Street, was still filled with unpretentious shops and taverns, and perpendicular side streets were lined with simple but inviting wood frame homes.

One of these homes was Therese’s. It was square and sturdy with decorative wooden shingles and large picture windows. The house was set far back from the street, and the expansive front yard had been turned into a large garden with vegetable, perennial and annual beds.

As Cummings arrived he noticed a middle-aged man in overalls and a weathered straw hat pulling weeds.

“What a lovely garden!” Cummings said, approaching the exterior fence.

“Thank you. It was my sister’s,” the man responded.

“Therese?”

“You knew her?”

“I met her. Like Therese, I moved here from Maine.”

“Did you?” the man said, extending his hand. “Samson Hickok.”

“Cummings Flynn Wanamaker,” he replied, shaking it.

“Where in Maine are you from?”

“Horeb.”

“Really? We’re from Samaria.”

“I know Samaria well.”

“You do know what happened to Therese?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Samson sadly nodded his head. “I’m just cleaning up the place. We’re going to sell the house. How do you know Therese?”

“I didn’t know her well. I understand she wrote a book about Wilhelm Reich.”

“I didn’t read her books. Too oddball for me.”

“Did Therese know someone named Chess Biederman by any chance?”

“Why do you ask?” Samson responded, apparently surprised by the question.

“He owned a small factory in Horeb. His body was found recently.”

“I’m familiar with the name,” Samson replied tentatively.

“I understand your sister Cosima died, too, about ten years ago, if I’m not mistaken. Do you mind if I ask what she died of?”

“Who are you again?” Samson asked.

“Cummings Flynn Wanamaker. I’ve been asked to investigate Therese’s death.”

“Why are you investigating?”

“Just informally. For the Mathers Society. That’s the organization that ...”

“I know what it is,” Samson said with an increasing tone of distrust. “Why did they hire someone to investigate?”

“They want to know what happened.”

“I think the police are working on that. Are you working with the police?”

“No. As I said, I was asked to investigate informally by members of the Mathers Society. As you might imagine, they are quite upset about what happened.”

“I’m sure they are. So am I. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot to do,” Samson said and turned back to the garden.

Back in his car Cummings considered what he’d learned through his interviews, although he realized there wasn’t much — or at least not much that was conclusive. This and plotting his next steps were enough to keep Cummings intellectually engaged as he drove home.

As the result of an impromptu visit to a yarn store several years earlier, Odin and Luther had developed a passion for the woolly arts. Luther was drawn to making colorful sweaters, while Odin was fond of making scientific and mathematical artifacts in yarn, such as Mobius strips and human brains. These enthusiasms now led them to embark on a yarn crawl.

A yarn crawl is similar to a pub crawl. Fiber shops in a given locale offer various incentives to encourage knitters to drop by and spend money. There were twenty-seven knitting shops within a one hundred-mile radius of Chicago participating in this year’s crawl, and Odin and Luther were determined to visit them all. Rockland and Cummings, noble and patient spouses that they were, had agreed to come along for the ride.

Odin and Cummings’s financial circumstances had not improved. There had been a discussion before setting out that Odin was just to look at yarn but not actually to buy any. In spite of this there were already several bags of new projects in the trunk of the car, and they had only just left store nine, Purls and Curls, so named because there was yarn in the front and a beauty salon in the back.