Polterheist: An Esther Diamond Novel (13 page)

Max said, “A chocolate muffin perhaps, Esther?”

“Oh, yes, thanks,” I said eagerly. I was hungry.

“It may be just a tad stale . . .”

“I don’t mind.”

The shop had well-worn hardwood floors, a broad-beamed ceiling, dusky-rose walls, and rows and rows of tall bookcases overflowing with volumes about all aspects of the occult. Some of the books were modern paperbacks, but many were old hardback volumes that smelled musty, and a few were rare leather-bound books printed in dead languages. I typically found this store a comforting place. Partly because it was nice to be surrounded by books in such a cozy, comfortable setting. And partly, of course, because this was Max’s home.

“Esther, I’m glad you stopped by! I was just thinking about you today,” Max said, pulling a chair up to join us near the dormant fireplace. “Christmas is in just a few days. And since you are a person of the Hebraic faith—a religion whose emphasis on learning has always won my most enthusiastic admiration—it occurs to me that you may not have plans for that day.”

“Oh, right,” Lucky said, nodding. “Christmas is probably kind of a bust for you, huh?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “No, I have no plans, Max.”

“Then I hope you will join me in the Saturnalia feast which I propose to host?”

“The
what
feast?” Lucky said.

“Saturnalia,” said Max. “It’s the ancient Roman festival from which Christianity has derived many of its Christmas customs. Saturnalia, of course, was derived, in turn, from even older mid-winter festivals whose periods of celebration clustered around the solstice—literally, the days when the ‘sun stands still.’ Since before the dawn of history, people in many cultures and societies have sought to ward off the frighteningly long, dark, cold nights at this time of year with festivals which celebrate light, fire, life, and the imminent, longed-for return of spring as we—”

“I would be delighted to be your guest,” I said, knowing that he could go on in this vein for some time if I didn’t distract him. “What time does your feast start?”

“Why an ancient Roman festival?” Lucky asked with a puzzled frown.

“It seems suitably ecumenical,” Max said. “Although I was baptized as a Christian for simple reasons of self-preservation . . . That is to say, the world used to be an even more intolerant place than it is now—”

“That’s true enough,” said Lucky, who believed Max to be roughly a contemporary of his. “Ain’t no denying some things is a lot better now than they was when I was young.”

“In any event, while I admire a great deal about the teachings of the individual commonly known to history as Jesus Christ, and whereas I have the most sincerely profound admiration for those who actually practice what he preached—which includes, of course, far, far fewer people than
call
themselves Christians . . .” Max paused for a moment, trying unravel his own syntax. “Er, well, the fact is, I do not and have never considered myself a Christian. Indeed, although I have traveled far from my origins, I was actually raised in the Hermetic tradition, rather than in any—”

“You were raised as a hermit?” Lucky asked.

“No, my family practiced Hermeticism.” Seeing our blank looks, Max explained, “It is a collection, one might say, of philosophical and mystical beliefs, albeit with an emphasis on the healthy spirit of inquiry, largely based on writings somewhat loosely attributed to Hermes Trismegistus.”

“Oh, him,” I said. “Of course.”

“I considered hosting a Hanukkah feast, since that would be in keeping with Esther’s inherited traditions, but then I realized that the Jewish festival of lights is already over.”

“Oh, yeah.” Lucky asked me, “Why
does
that move around so much? I never know when it’s supposed to happen.”

“Jewish and Muslim holidays are determined by lunar calendars,” I said. “Christian holidays are determined by a solar calendar. And eastern and western Christianity use different calendars, too.”

“I always find it so confusing,” Lucky complained. “They couldn’t all get together on this? Would that be so hard?”

I replied, “Oh, I think the calendar is a fairly minor matter in the things that Christians, Jews, and Muslims have never really all been able to get together on, Lucky.”

He gave a sort of Talmudic shrug in acknowledgment of this point.

“So I thought that Saturnalia would be a fittingly inclusive theme for my holiday feast, since the Romans celebrated it on the same day that Christmas is now celebrated.”

“A Jewish elf, a Hermetic mage, a pagan festival . . .” I nodded with approval. “It works for me. I think it’s a lovely idea, Max.”

“Would there be any chance,” Max asked Lucky, “of a Roman Catholic joining us for this celebration?”

“Well, now that you mention it,” Lucky said with a pleased smile, “my daughter and that schmuck she married aren’t flying in for the holidays. And since I can’t go out there this year, on account of I gotta clear up this problem the Gambello family has got with Fenster’s . . . Thank you, Doc. I’d love to come. I’ll bring the cannoli.”

“Excellent!” Max said, pleased that his guest list was shaping up.

“Speaking of Fenster’s . . .” I said.

“Ah, yes,” said Max. “How are you faring at Fenster and Company, Esther? And, Lucky, what’s this about a problem between your
famiglia
and the store?”

“Actually, Max, something pretty strange is going on there. Something . . .” I glanced at Lucky, wondering exactly where to start the story.

“I was thinking about this on the subway,” Lucky said to me. “And I got a theory.”

“Well, since I certainly don’t,” I said, “the floor is all yours.”

“Doc,” he said to Max, “do you think it’s possible that Constance Fenster, the Iron Matriarch, is haunting Fenster and Co.?”

11

J
eff said to me, “Has it occurred to you—because it has certainly occurred to
me
—that this might be the very worst idea you’ve ever had? And I am including the time you convinced me to meet your parents.”

(They hadn’t minded that my boyfriend was black; they minded that he wasn’t Jewish. And whenever Jeff brought up that occasion, I still automatically apologized to him for it. As I did now.)

Wearing his Santa costume and ready to go on the floor, Jeff gave a weary sigh. “Esther, I know from long and bitter experience that I’m wasting my breath on you, so I suppose I’m really just saying this for the sake of my conscience: Don’t do this.”

“Don’t we look suitable?” Max asked with concern.

“You look fine,
”
I said. “All of you.”

“Esther, Esther . . .” Jeff shook his head. “Okay, you asked for some help, I gave you some help. Now let’s agree that I don’t know anything about this. Fair enough?”

Lucky was studying his reflection in the mirror of the men’s locker room at Fenster’s. “Kid, don’t listen to Mr. Negative over there,” he said to me. “We’re gonna be fine. My own mother, God rest her soul, wouldn’t know me in this get-up.”

“Indeed, I hardly recognize you myself!” Max said enthusiastically.

During our discussion last night, the three of us had agreed that Max and Lucky should meet me at Fenster’s today to infiltrate the store in search of whatever entity was wreaking havoc here. Given the high turnover of seasonal staff, as well as the large supply of old costumes that I had discovered yesterday up on the sixth floor, it had seemed obvious to me during our late-night discussion that my friends should disguise themselves as elves.

Now that I looked at them, though, I was fighting a morbid fear that Jeff might not be entirely wrong about the quality of this idea.

The two covert undercover investigative elves both turned and faced Jeff—along with their faithful reindeer companion, Nelli.

Jeff, who had agreed today (after a little shrill nagging on my part) to help me with their costumes and makeup, took a long look at them. Then he made a horrible little sound of mingled dread, pity, and grief. He turned around and trudged out of the room, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll be on the floor if anyone needs . . . No, actually, I’ll just be on the floor. Period. Full stop.”

“Ignore him,” I said. “This will work.”

God, I hoped I was right. Lopez, who’d be poking around the store again today, knew both of these men, and he was certainly observant enough to recognize them even in costume and makeup. We had concealed their features as best we could, but I wouldn’t want to risk close scrutiny by a cop who would unquestionably misinterpret their reasons for being here.

“Just be wary, and make sure you avoid contact with Detective Lopez,” I said.

“Gee, y’think?” said Lucky.

“Understood,” said Max.

Finding costumes upstairs that fit them had not been easy, since neither man was shaped like a young, fit actor, which was the body type that most of the elf costumes had been made for over the years. It would be much easier to find a good fit, of course, if I could liberate a couple of Santa costumes for them . . . But there were too many logistical problems with that identity, since only one Santa at a time could be on the floor, and he was confined to the throne room. Any deviation from this pattern would instantly attract attention to the, er, undercover operatives.

I also hated to imagine what would happen if Lopez stumbled across a furtive Santa Claus who was sneaking around the basement or hiding in a closet at Fenster’s. The poor man might never recover from a shock like that.

Anyhow, unlike Father Christmas, there were quite a few elves in the building, and we weren’t confined to any particular spot—or even to any particular floor. In their counterfeit elf identities, Max and Lucky could move around the whole building with relative impunity.

It was a shame, though, that I’d been unsuccessful in finding costumes in which they looked more credible. Then again, I was also in costume now, and when I looked at my own reflection and saw Dreidel, “credible” certainly wasn’t among the first thirty words that came to mind.

Unfortunately, the fitted tunic, shorts, and tights that characterized the standard male elf outfit at Fenster’s mercilessly revealed Lucky’s bony legs and poor posture, as well as Max’s tendency to slight chubbiness. The cruel truth was that elf costumes did not lend dignity to gentlemen of a certain age.

I had also confiscated Jeff’s ruined Santa beard, the one that he had bled on yesterday. He’d collected a new one from the costumer today, and I draped his damaged one over Lucky’s face, after concealing the spots of dried blood with some white chalk.

Looking at it now, though, I said, “Oh, I’m not sure about the beard, Lucky . . .” It had looked absurdly fake on Diversity Santa; on a sixtysomething man in an ill-fitting elf-costume, it seemed almost tragic.

“Nah, it’ll work,” the old mobster said with confidence. “Hides my face. That’s what we need.”

I hadn’t expected Max and Lucky to bring Nelli with them today; I suppose I should have, though, since she was a mystical familiar who had entered this dimension to confront Evil—and that was certainly what we seemed to be haunted by at Fenster’s. Nelli was wearing a festive Christmas doggy jacket of red and green, brightly decorated with sparkling silver accents. Max (who tended to spoil her) had also bought her a matching red leash with jingling silver bells on it. At his urging, I had found a reindeer headdress for Nelli in the costume storage room. It was made for a human head rather than a canine one, but with some ingenuity and a stapler swiped from Miles’ office, Jeff and I had managed to fit it to her so that it stayed on. So now she sported an impressive pair of squishy fake reindeer antlers.

“She still looks like a dog,” I pointed out to Max. “That’ll be a problem.” We had managed to sneak her into the building via the staff entrance and back stairs, but she was bound to be noticed if Max took her exploring with him. And upon being noticed, she would be evicted, since dogs weren’t permitted inside Fenster’s.

“Never fear,” said Max. “I anticipated this problem.” With a flourish, he pulled out a pair of dark sunglasses and donned them.

I stared at him blankly for a moment, then I got it. “A blind elf?”

Max bobbed his head. “She’s my reindeer guide!”

I nodded in acceptance of this, and I hedged our bets by pinning an index card to Nelli’s jacket with the words “I’m Working” printed on it.

Last night, when explaining to Max and Lucky exactly what had been happening at Fenster’s, I drew a map of the store for them, pinpointing the sites of the mystical phenomena or questionable incidents. They pulled that map out now and formed a plan of action.

“We should attempt to find an epicenter,” said Max. “A specific spot where mystical activity or dark energy is focused. If we can do that, it might help us narrow down the precise nature of what we’re facing.”

I was unconvinced by Lucky’s suggestion last night that the ghost of Constance Fenster was haunting the store. Solsticeland had been a pet project of hers, and Fenster & Co. had been her life’s work. Although the Iron Matriarch sounded formidable enough to reach out from the grave if she chose, I was very skeptical that she would do so to sabotage her own creation.

As I told Max and Lucky, I was more inclined to go with Satsy’s interpretation: whatever was here now, it hadn’t dared to mess with Fenster’s while Constance was still alive.

As we conferred now in the men’s locker room, Max said, “The seeming randomness of the activity, combined with its violence, might suggest a poltergeist.”

“That’s a kind of ghost, right?” I said.

“Yes. The roots of the word are German, and it essentially means ‘noisy ghost.’”

“Well, I never met Constance,” I said, “but having met two generations of her descendants, I’d say that ‘noisy’ seems to be a family trait. So maybe she is our ghost.”

“‘Noisy’ is used in a more figurative sense here,” said Max. “There may be rapping, tapping, knocking, and even human voices associated with a poltergeist—”

“Or laughter?” I asked. “That’s what Satsy heard in the elevator. That and growling.”

“Yes, these are also possibilities. But the key element is that a poltergeist is typically much more physical in its influence than a traditional spirit or ghost.”

“Physical?” Lucky repeated. “As in trying to suffocate a young lady with the branches of a fake tree while knocking people around with the other branches?”

Max nodded. “Exactly. If we
are
dealing with a ghost or spirit—which may or may not be the case—then that sort of physical activity points directly to a poltergeist. Rather than revealing itself as a shadowy apparition, a poltergeist throws a plate at you, makes your radio explode, sends a wagon speeding down the street when there is no horse pulling it, and so on.”

Max paused and frowned in thought before adding, “We should certainly proceed with caution. If we are facing a poltergeist, then the phenomena which Esther and Satsy experienced indicate an unusually powerful one.”

“So the way the enchanted tree fought off a bunch of people while attacking me,” I said. “That wouldn’t be considered standard mojo for a poltergeist?”

“No, indeed. Poltergeists are usually just a nuisance. Occasionally, they’re dangerous. But they rarely have the level of power and sustained control that characterizes the event in the Enchanted Forest—a locale which, obviously, we’ll need to scrutinize thoroughly today, Lucky.”

“If this is a poltergeist,” I asked, “then how do we issue it an exit visa?”

“You mean invite it to leave?” Lucky asked. “Good question.”

“Well, that can be complicated,” said Max.

I sighed. “Of
course.”

“Hey, you knew it wouldn’t be easy,” Lucky said. “It never is.”

“A poltergeist may operate according to a variety of parameters and patterns, but one of the interesting features of this particular type of entity is that it usually haunts a person, rather than a place.”

I thought this over. “So the epicenter, in that case, would be some
one
rather than some
where?”

“Precisely.”

“Hey . . . Now that’s interesting!” said Lucky. “Max, could the poltergeisted person be a criminal mastermind?”

I said, “You’re thinking there’s a link between the strange phenomena inside Fenster’s and the heists?”

He nodded, making the bells on his elf cap jingle. “Think about it.
Very
smooth hits. No witnesses. The hijacked drivers can’t give the cops any useful information.”

“How do you know that?” I challenged.

“Because if the cops were getting any decent information at all, they’d have a lead on the robbers and leave the Gambellos alone, instead of continuing to frisk the family so thoroughly that I’m worried OCCB is going to tell the boss to bend over so they look up
there,
too.” Lucky added gloomily, “Victor Gambello don’t need this kind of stress at his age.”

“Okay, so they’re very smooth hits that leave no evidence trail,” I said. “That doesn’t really connect them—”

“And someone here at the store has supernatural mojo. Someone who really hates Fenster’s, I’d say.” Lucky paused before continuing, “I’ve thought about it, and what you said last night is right, kid. If she were still around, in a spiritual sense, old Connie wouldn’t be causing trouble in Solsticeland or scaring Santa. No way.” Lucky’s bells jangled again as he shook his head. “The Gambellos got
La Cosa Nostra
. Our thing. And this company was
La Cosa Sua.
Her thing.”

“Yes, I can see that.” It seemed like a fitting description.

“She was a tough woman, old Connie Fenster. The cops think it was all their arrests and indictments that put a stop to the, uh, stuff that went on all those years ago, when the Gambellos decided to leave Fenster and Powell alone.” Lucky snorted. “Nah. You know what it was?”

“What?” I asked, increasingly fascinated by Constance, despite feeling no regret that I never got to meet her.

“It was Connie.
She
put a stop to it,” said Lucky. “She went to Don Victor Gambello herself, against the wishes of the Powells, and cut a deal with him. A
tough
deal, too. She was a real negotiator. That society widow went to the
capo di tutti capi
to do business, and she didn’t go to him with her hat in her hand or begging for mercy. She went to him as an equal. And you what? He wound up treating her like one.”

That must be why Helen Fenster-Thorpe, who believed the Gambellos were behind the hijackings, thought she could negotiate with the thieves. Because her mother had done so—successfully. I suspected, though, that Helen overrated her own abilities, whereas Constance Fenster had not.

“The boss has always said that Connie Fenster was the strongest, shrewdest, most ruthless person he ever met—and if she ever decided to get into
our
thing, then he’d retire and move to Florida.” Lucky grinned. “I guess we’re lucky she stuck to the retail world.”

I recalled something else I’d heard during my accidental visit with the Fenster family yesterday. “Lucky, the deal that Constance made with your boss . . . What happened when she died?”

He shrugged. “It went the way of all flesh.”

“When I met the Fensters yesterday and they were talking about this, it sounded to me like they think the Gambellos are hitting the trucks in order to pressure them into making another deal.”

“The boss respected their mother,” said Lucky. “So if he wanted to get the Fensters’ attention, this sure ain’t how he’d go about doing it.”

“They don’t seem to know that. Then again, I think Lopez nailed it when he said they’re idiots.” I added, “You can’t tell anyone he said that.”

“Who would I tell?” Lucky said, “Anyhow, to return to our current situation . . . It seems like these weird things happening here are probably caused by someone who hates Fenster’s. And although the hijackings c
ould
be just a matter of business, maybe they’re being pulled off by someone who hates Fenster’s, too. They’re doing a lot of damage, after all, right? So if there’s an inside person involved in the hijackings . . .”