by Mary Bowers
He put down the plastic fork and settled his gaze on me as I spoke. Then he nodded, letting his eyes drift off. “You’re right, of course. I lack self-control. I’ve always been a know-it-all, and I have the terrible weakness of looking down upon those with whom I don’t happen to agree. Every now and then I need a wake-up call. Ms. Verone, I can’t thank you enough. I must really make an effort. After all, there truly are ‘more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of’ in my own personal philosophy. To put it less poetically, I needed a kick in the pants.”
“I wasn’t lecturing you,” I said. “I was just sayin’. It seems to me that The Keyster could get along just fine without a stargazer anyway.”
I still had the copy he’d given me, and I laid it out on the table next to the package from Oswald’s shop and skimmed through it a little. When I chuckled over something witty that happened to catch my eye, he quivered with pleasure and tried to see what part I’d been reading. It struck me that despite his heavy-handed downplaying, he took a lot of pride in The Keyster.
“I have to disagree with you about one thing, though,” he said, looking at me apologetically. “Making it clear at the outset that I respect your opinion.”
I nodded in acknowledgement, and he began to speak eagerly, his voice continually rising. “A neighborhood sheet like The Keyster has to have a bright, healthy mix: for instance, I’ve got one of my retired friends doing crossword puzzles for me.” He turned to the back of the newspaper and pointing to the little black-and-white checkerboard at the bottom. “It’s a small one, but it’s one of those ingredients that are essential to the recipe. You wouldn’t bake bread without yeast, would you? Each ingredient in the recipe is essential: the crossword, the celebrity birthdays, even this little comic strip a local kid does for me. It’s not the greatest, but it’s a good effort, the neighbors love that he’s doing it – especially his mother – all these little things are the leavening. Without them, simply doing reports on what the city council is blathering on about and who was in the drunk tank last week are simply flat, hard facts, without flavor or texture. And part of that leavening is a touch of the occult. Nobody locally wants to do horoscopes for me and I can’t afford the syndicated ones, but Camille is running a shop right there on Duval Street! She’s a name, she’s our prophetess – she has to do a column for The Keyster. It’s her civic duty, dammit.”
He underlined the statement by scooping up the last of his pie and eating it.
Michael and I stared at him.
“I, er, have a tendency to revert to the lecture-hall voice,” he said sheepishly, realizing that the other pie-eaters were all looking at us.
After a moment, one of the koi fish did a pass above the surface of the water, showing off his beautiful markings, making a loud splash and drawing attention. The other customers looked at the pool, then went back to their pies and their own conversations.
With a lowered voice, The Professor went on. “But I insist that we all have a duty to contribute what we can to the bread that feeds the community spirit. You, Taylor – may I call you Taylor? – you probably lend your psychic abilities to people in distress. I know your friend Edson mentioned the occasional séance, done without fee in dire situations.”
“I run an animal shelter,” I said, stopping him. “I’m not really a psychic. It’s a long story.”
The Professor accepted this, a little perplexed, but it didn’t hold him back for long. “You contribute to your community by taking in the stray animals and finding homes for them. Exactly my point. You’re an essential part of the community fabric, and it’s not about the money. And you, Michael, you’re a lawyer? I’m sure you give the occasional pro bono advice to those who need it?”
Michael nodded.
“And I, retired and at my leisure, contribute my own small measure of yeast to the community bread,” he said, gesturing at The Keyster. “It’s what I do. At the risk of seeming grandiose, I’ll say that it’s what I am able to give back to my fellow man. I feel very strongly that it’s what we must all do. And if Camille believes she actually has paranormal abilities, she should contribute, too. She must. That’s what I believe.”
“And I’m sure she will,” I said, “when you ask her the right way, Professor. Now, where do you recommend Michael and I go for an early dinner. We’re starving.”
“You’re only steps away from the Key West Bight. I’d recommend The Conch Republic. It’s as Key West as you can get, and the food’s excellent. I’ll walk you over there.”
That reminded me of The Conch War against the United States, and I brought it up, knowing The Professor would be able to tell us all about it. He snapped into his most florid storytelling style, and we rolled out of the key lime pie shop and headed for the marina, laughing all the way. By the time we threaded our way around the docks, we were enjoying his company enough to invite him to join us.
“And I think we arranged the courses of our meal perfectly,” he said as we took our table. “We had dessert first. I always make it a point to do that. I call it pre-zert, and I never let it keep me from having post-zert, too, if it appeals to me.”
* * * * *
We were all too full for post-zert, but we were feeling lazy and relaxed and didn’t want to leave the restaurant. We had a front-and-center view of vigorous young people boarding a charter boat to go scuba diving, and the area around the restaurant, where people had to walk to get around the piers, was great for people-watching. We decided to have a cup of coffee after dinner and talk a while longer.
After he ran out of other things to say, The Professor idly asked, “What’s in the box?” looking toward the inner side of the booth’s bench, where I had set it. I’d forgotten all about it, and might have left it behind in the booth if he hadn’t drawn my attention to it just then.
“A little something I bought over at Oswald’s shop,” I said, putting the box on the table. “It’s from Lydia Stoffel’s estate sale.”
The Professor quickened. “Ah – like the lavender teacup. I think that’s rather brave of you, Taylor. I don’t believe in the teacup hogwash, but I still try to stay away from Lydia’s knick-knacks.”
He knocked on the wooden tabletop and grinned at his own contradiction.
Michael spoke up. “We’re safe. Camille assures us that Lydia doesn’t mind Taylor having it. It’s the teacup she’s obsessed with, apparently.”
“And the even more intrepid Maryellen actually has that object in her house,” The Professor said more seriously than I would have expected. He looked at me. “With whatever psychic inklings you actually do have, are you worried about Maryellen?”
“Not really. She’s a tough old bird. If the teacup does have that much negative energy, I bet she can stand up to it. She’s making a painting of it now. I’ll be interested to see it, when she’s done with it, and sometime when things are quiet, I’d like to have another go at the teacup itself. Oh, not to paint it. Just to hold it. The first time I touched it, Oswald began to have the vapors and I was distracted, and then Maryellen grabbed it away from me.”
“She’s like that,” The Professor said, grinning.
“Impulsive?”
“Determined. She’s not just a tough old bird; in common parlance, she’s a pushy old broad. But still . . . .” He gazed away across the harbor, looking troubled. Then he looked back at us suddenly. “Are you two doing anything now?”
Michael looked at me and I shrugged. “It’s too late to take a nap, too early to hit the bars, and I’m feeling too lazy to take a tour, or even walk around much. What did you have in mind?”
“Let’s go look in on Maryellen. She does her writing in the morning and the early afternoon; she’ll be done by now. I’ve been meaning to interview her about her connection to the cup, anyway. I did an article on it after the coincidence of Marnie Carnahan’s death, and my readers were very interested. I want to do a follow-up.”
“Well, she was in rare form this morning,” I told him. “Let’s
go see how she’s doing. I want Michael to meet her, anyway. By the way, wasn’t Marnie a neighbor of yours?” I asked innocently.
He paused. “Um, yes, she was. Not a nice lady, but then I’m sure Maryellen told you that.”
“Yeah, she also said something about a dog and a rooster?”
“My dear lady,” he said, only slightly chagrined, “you’d make a good investigative reporter, but you needn’t be so subtle. Yes, it was my dog. Come on, we’ll walk over to Maryellen’s house, and I’ll tell you all about it along the way.”
Chapter 11
The Professor’s version of the dog-and-rooster story was a little self-serving, naturally, but the bare facts were the same.
“Roosters are fools, of course, but I was not happy with Sailor; he’s intelligent enough to know better. And whatever their intellectual capacity, roosters can be dangerous. Many of the feral roosters of Key West are descended from fighting cocks. It was a miracle Sailor wasn’t injured. I spoke to him very sternly afterwards. I would have gladly dealt with the carnage myself, but Marnie came at me like a fishwife, and like many men, I have my pride. Before I knew it, we were almost going at it like Sailor and the rooster. Marnie always brought out the worst in me, and I’m hardly alone that way. It is not something I am proud of. Even before Marnie died I regretted my behavior, and when she was found that way and I realized it was no longer possible to make peace . . . .” For once, he was at a loss for words. “Well, you can imagine.”
We walked the last half-block in silence, and when we turned in to Maryellen’s house, I felt a chill. Too many psychic vibes had been woven around me that morning, and I was beginning to feel superstitious myself.
When she answered the doorbell, alive and well, I was tremendously relieved. Actually, I was surprised.
She saw the surprise on my face and laughed.
“Did you come to reverently cover my corpse with a sheet?” she asked, grinning into my face as I passed her in the doorway.
“Of course not,” I answered. “I know police procedure as well as anybody else who watches Forensic Files. You back cautiously out of the room without touching anything and call 911.”
She roared with laughter. “Admit it,” she said, looking at each of us in turn, “you expected to find me dead on the floor.”
“Now I’ll have to think up something far less interesting for this week’s front page,” The Professor said mournfully. “With things so deadly quiet in Key West just now, I think it’s callous of you to deny me a sizzler. I could have sold the story nationally. Still, it’s good to find you on your feet and ready to shadowbox, as usual. Surprising, but good.”
She loved it, and chuckled the whole way back through the house to her favorite table. Before we reached it, she turned and gestured into the dining room. “My painting is coming along beautifully, don’t you think?”
She had worked in the colors on the canvas and was in the process of pushing the outlines of the teacup’s image into shape. The right-hand rim of the cup was leaning just enough to skew the shape of the whole cup, and she hadn’t done any highlighting yet. The draftsmanship on the intricate lace of the doily was astonishingly good, though. That part looked finished, and it was beautiful.
“I think that’s going to make a very nice book cover,” I said. “The doily especially – ”
“I really nailed it, didn’t I?” she said in a rush before I could finish complimenting her. She gazed at the canvas smugly, nodding to herself. “Andre – my photographer friend – is always after me to contribute artwork to his gallery, but writing is my calling and I know it. Still, I’m sure I could have made a comfortable living as an artist instead.”
With Maryellen heaping praise on her own head, nobody else felt they needed to help her.
Turning to us abruptly, she said, “You’ve come at a good time. I just finished my supper and was about to have some key lime pie. Can I offer you some?”
“No thank you, dear,” The Professor said. “We had pre-zert. As you suspected, we were just checking to see if you were still alive. We’re not discouraged, though. If terrible things haven’t started yet, we might have just the thing to get them rolling. Taylor, here, has yet another object that once belonged to Lydia. I’m not sure if the effect is exponential, but with two of Lydia’s things in your house, you’re sure to be under attack now.”
“Oh, let me see,” Maryellen said, zeroing in on my package.
She took it from me and without asking permission, set it on her breakfast table and ripped the wrapping off.
“A Christmas house,” she said, looking at me dead-pan. “Seriously?”
“It was that or a lop-eared bunny,” I said.
“You could have gone for dishware. If you had any spunk, you would have, although Lydia managed to break most of her really fine pieces in her last few years. Her hands shook, you know, and her head did, too. There was a soup tureen I’d made up my mind to steal when she wasn’t looking – it would have been more in the nature of a rescue than a theft – but she smashed the lid before I could, and after that I didn’t want it. I wonder if Ozzie’s got it now.”
“Did it match the teacup?” Michael asked.
“No. It was Copeland, worth about a thousand dollars, and the silly cow broke the lid. You came to handle the cup, didn’t you?” she asked me suddenly.
“Well, yes, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind. Once you lift an object from a set-up, it’s impossible to get it back into exactly the same position again. The colors change, the highlights change, the lines change. Sorry, I can’t let you do it. After I finish the painting I’ll let you know and you can come and be one with the cup before I give it back to Ozzie, but not now. Good enough?”
“I guess it’ll have to be.” I was half disappointed and half relieved.
“What are you getting out of that thing?” she asked, looking at the resin Christmas house. “Have you given it the once-over, metaphysically speaking?”
“Yup. Nada. I guess that’s what made me curious about the teacup again.”
“Conditions were less than ideal when you handled it yesterday,” a man’s voice said from behind me.
I turned to see who it was and was shocked to see Edson Darby-Deaver coming out of a hallway. He must have been using her bathroom. Or hiding until whoever had arrived would go away again.
“Hello, Taylor, Michael,” he said. “Professor.”
“You two have met?” I said.
“Of course we have,” The Professor said. “I was right there welcoming them into town when they arrived.”
“I asked the good doctor to come by today and make sure the thing wasn’t sending out shockwaves or something,” Maryellen said complacently. “I’m as psychic as a flush toilet. Can’t be too careful, you know.”
The real reason she’d asked Ed to come hit me between the eyes before I even had time to think about it: she’d wanted to observe a paranormal investigator sniffing around a possessed object. Whatever Ed had been doing, she’d been taking notes and it was going to be in her next book, greatly exaggerated. I decided all over again I wasn’t reading that book. I didn’t want to see what kind of a caricature she was going to make out of Ed.
I gave her a cynical look and she nearly stuck her tongue out at me. Poor innocent Ed was thanking her for giving him the opportunity to study the cup away from the antique shop and its quivering owner.
I gave Maryellen a final, tiny shake of the head, then turned back to The Professor.
“Who told you Ed and the gang were even coming to Key West?”
“I never reveal my sources.”
“I told him,” Maryellen said.
“Actually, it was Oswald,” The Professor said. “I never reveal my sources unless I can contradict Maryellen by doing it. He found out from his niece, who happens to own the B&B where the troupe is staying, and Oswald told me. I have my snitches well trained.”
“Well, I told him too, after Ozzie told me
,” Maryellen said, taking her favorite seat at the table. “What are you all standing around for? Sit down. Ed, bring a chair over from the dining room.”
The Professor went on as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “I’m planning on doing an article on the Haunt or Hoax? shoot, but they made me agree not to publish until after they’ve left town. Rumors abound, of course, and everybody’s curious. I don’t know why they asked for secrecy. Teddy Force has been recognized at several watering holes, and Dr. Darby-Deaver, of course, is unmistakable. If Mr. Force really wants to stay under the radar, he should stay out of the bars. Doesn’t he have a disguise he can change into, if he wants to remain incognito?”
“Don’t let him fool you,” I said. “Teddy loves being recognized in public.”
The Professor went on, aggrieved at having to hold back a hot one. “He claimed that their fans would go wild over him. Something like the old days when the Beatles first came to America. I haven’t seen any evidence of that, but Mr. Force seemed to believe that there would have been parties and sit-ins on the night of the shoot and parades the next day. He might be right about the parade. Any excuse will do, around here. Anyway, in the midst of all that, his pristine objectives would have been thwarted. Have you changed the focus of your investigation, by the way?” He asked, turning to Ed. “I was bracing myself for midnight vigils at the cemetery, but you seem more interested in this little cup now.”
“I’m interested in investigating the cup, but I seem to be the only one,” Ed told him. “I didn’t even know about it until we were already on the way here. Key West is such a paranormically evocative place, Teddy decided to just come here and see what we could find. There was no plan; there almost never is. We’re only here because Teddy feels we should spread ourselves out geographically. Personally, I think he just wanted a vacation in Key West. He hasn’t shown much interest in work since we got here. He’s been pursuing things that would be more interesting to someone like you,” he said, looking at Maryellen in a way that somebody with a thinner skin might have found insulting.
