by Kathy Reichs
“Roseboro claims he’d really like to know.”
“Did you ask about the cellar?”
“I’m saving that for our early morning chat.”
“Mind if I observe?”
Pause.
“What the hell.”
13
I PARKED ON THE BORDER BETWEEN FOURTH AND FIRST WARDS. Walking along Church Street, I couldn’t help thinking the quarter was a poster for Charlotte’s uptown revival.
Charlie’s unit was midpoint in a row of nine spanking-new townhouses. Kitty-corner from it was the McColl Center for Visual Art, a studio and gallery complex recently created within a renovated church.
One empty lot down from the former house of worship, mounded rubble attested to a recent implosion. Way past its shelf life, the old Renaissance Place Apartment building had been toppled to make way for a spiffy new tower.
Two blocks southeast, I knew other buildings had also been earmarked for demolition, including the Mecklenburg County Government Services Center, our very own reborn Sears Garden Shop. Everyone at the MCME was dreading the move.
C’est la vie, Charlotte-style. A new landscape rising from the old.
I rang Charlie’s bell at 7:23, damp hair yanked into a high ponytail. Fetching. But I had managed mascara and blusher.
My summons was answered by a host who looked exceedingly good. Wash-faded jeans. Slip-on loafers, no socks. Zip-front sweater showing just a hint of chest.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“No problemo.” Charlie buzzed my cheek. He smelled good, too. Burberry?
Flashbulb image of the Skylark.
Taking in my leggings and new Max Mara tunic, Charlie nodded approval. “Yessiree. She cleans up real good.” He gave the modifier at least five e’s.
“You used that same line earlier today.”
“Experience has taught me the value of moderation.”
“Moderation.”
“If I let loose unbridled wit, women show up from all over town. I once crafted three smooth lines in a single evening. Cops had to set up barricades.”
“How annoying for the neighbors.”
“I got a letter of complaint from the homeowners association.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Walk or ride?” Charlie asked.
I tipped my head in question.
“The place has four levels.”
“There’s an elevator,” I guessed.
Charlie gave a humble what’s-one-to-do? smile.
“Are we going to the top?”
“Kitchen’s on two.”
“I’ll rough it,” I said.
Leading the way, Charlie explained the layout. Office and garage down, living-dining room, kitchen, and den on two, bedrooms on three, party room and terrace on four.
The decor was Pottery Barn modern, done using a palette of browns and cream. Probably umber and ecru in designer-speak.
But the furnishings showed a personal touch. Paintings, most modern, a few traditional and obviously old. Sculptures in wood and metal. An African carving. A mask I guessed was Indonesian.
As we climbed, I couldn’t help noticing photos. Family gatherings, some with faces colored like choices in coffee, others with skin in the mocha-olive range.
Posed shots of a tall black man in a Celtics jersey. Charles “CC” Hunt in his NBA days.
Framed snapshots. A ski trip. A beach outing. A sailing excursion. In most, Charlie stood or sat beside a willowy woman with long black hair and cinnamon skin. The wife who died on 9/11? I spotted my answer in a wedding portrait on the living room mantel.
I looked away, saddened. Embarrassed? Charlie was watching. His eyes clouded but he made no comment.
The kitchen was all stainless steel and natural wood. Charlie’s culinary efforts covered one granite countertop.
He waved a hand over the platters. “Rosemary-rubbed lamb chops. Marinated zucchini. Mixed salad à la Hunt.”
“Impressive.” My eyes drifted to the table. It was set for two.
Charlie noticed my noticing.
“Unfortunately, Katy had a prior engagement.”
“Uh-huh.” Washing her hair, no doubt.
“Wine? Martini?”
Apparently my daughter hadn’t mentioned my colorful past.
“Perrier, please.”
“Lemon?”
“Perfect.”
“Nondrinker?” Spoken from behind the opened refrigerator door.
“Mm.”
Though Charlie knew I’d knocked back my share of beers in high school, he didn’t ask about my changed relationship with booze. I liked that.
“Join me on the terrace? The view’s not bad.”
I’ve never been an autumn person. I find the season bittersweet, nature’s last gasp before the clocks are turned back and life hunkers down for the long, dark winter.
Forget Johnny Mercer’s “Autumn Leaves.” In my view the original French title had it right. “Les feuilles mortes.” The dead leaves.
Maybe it’s because of my work, my daily intimacy with death. Who knows? Give me crocuses and daffodils and little baby chicks.
Nevertheless, Charlie’s “not bad” was an understatement. The evening was so sparkling it seemed almost alive, the kind you get when the summer pollen has settled and the fall foliage has yet to gear up for action. A zillion stars dotted the sky. The illuminated towers and skyscrapers made uptown resemble a Disney creation. Mr. Money’s Wild Ride.
As Charlie grilled, we talked, testing pathways. Naturally, the first led down memory lane.
Parties at “the rock.” Spring break at Myrtle Beach. We laughed hardest at memories of our junior float, a tissue-paper and chicken-wire whale with booted legs kicking from its open mouth. Whale Not Swallow De-Feet. At the time we’d thought the pun Groucho Marx clever.
We cringed at recollections of ourselves during the all-time nadir in fashion history. Crushed-velvet jackets. Crocheted beer label hats. Macramé purses. Candies pumps.
No reference was made to the Skylark.
Chops and veggies grilled, we descended to the dining room. As our comfort level grew, conversation turned to more serious issues.
Charlie talked of a teen whose defense he was handling. Mildly retarded, the boy had been charged with murdering two of his grandparents.
I discussed the cauldron bones, Anson Tyler, and Boyce Lingo’s latest showboating. Why not? Between them, Lingo and Stallings had put practically all of it out there.
“Lingo’s suggesting the cases are linked?” Charlie asked.
“He’s implying it. He’s wrong. First of all, Anson Tylor wasn’t decapitated. And, while I’ll admit that the Lake Wylie mutilation suggests Satanism, there’s no hint of devil worship in the Greenleaf cellar. The barnyard animals, the statue of Saint Barbara, the carving of Eleggua, the cauldrons. It all smacks of some form of Santería.”
“Ignore him. Lingo’s positioning for a run at a state senate seat and needs publicity.”
“Who votes for that jackass?”
Charlie took my question as rhetorical. “Dessert?”
“Sure.”
He disappeared, returned with pie slices the size of warships.
“Please tell me you didn’t make this.”
“Banana cream purchased at Edible Art. Though galactic, sadly, my powers have boundaries.” Charlie sat.
“Thank God.”
Two bites and I winged back to Lingo. This round, I really cranked up.
“Lingo’s hysterics about Satanists and child murder are going to scare the hell out of people. Worse. He could inspire the right-wing loony fringe to start burning crosses on the lawns of Ashkenazim and Athabascans. I’ve seen it happen. Some holier-than-thou nitwit hits the airwaves, next thing you know folks are organizing down at the mini-mart to go out and kick ass.” I air-jabbed my fork for emphasis. “Statues? Beads? Coconut shells? Forget it. Satan wasn’t on the A list down in that cellar.”
Charlie raised his pal
ms in my direction. “Put down your weapon and we all walk away.”
I lay my fork on my plate. Changed my mind, picked it up, and dived back into the pie. I’d hate myself later. Tough.
“Lingo really pissed you off,” Charlie said.
“It’s one of his specialties.” Garbled through crumbs and banana.
“You done venting?”
I started to protest. Stopped, embarrassed.
“Sorry. You’re right.”
We both ate in silence. Then, “Athabascans?”
I looked up. Charlie was smiling.
“Ashkenazim?”
“You know what I mean. Minority groups that are not understood.”
“Aleuts?” he suggested.
“Good one.”
We both laughed. Charlie reached out, stopped, as though surprised by the action of his hand. Awkwardly, he pointed one finger.
“You have whipped cream on your lip.”
I made a swipe with my napkin.
“So,” I said.
“So,” he said.
“This was nice.”
“It was.” Charlie’s face was fixed in an expression I couldn’t interpret.
Awkward beat.
I rose and began gathering dishes.
“Not a chance.” Shooting to his feet, Charlie took the plates from my hands. “My house. My rules.”
“Dictatorial,” I said.
“Yes,” he agreed.
An hour later I lay curled in my bed. Alone. Perhaps it was the panty-tumble incident. Whatever. Birdie was keeping his distance.
The room was silent. Slivers of moonlight slashed the armoire.
Given the calm of the room and the demands of the day, I should have fallen asleep quickly. Instead, my thoughts spun like whirligig blades.
I’d enjoyed Charlie’s company. Conversation had been easy, not strained as I’d anticipated.
Sudden realization. I’d done most of the talking. Was that good? Was Charlie Hunt the silent, pensive type? Still waters running deep? Shallow waters barely running at all?
Charlie had appeared to understand my frustration with Lingo. Though I had, indeed, been venting, he hadn’t treated me like a sleep-deprived toddler.
Our dialogue had been strictly present tense. No mention of past marriages, lost loves, murdered spouses. No discussion of the years between the Skylark and now.
I remembered the wedding picture. Charlie’s expression. What was it I’d seen in his eyes? Resentment? Guilt? Grief for a woman blown up by fanatics?
Not that I wanted to share secrets with Charlie Hunt. I hadn’t mentioned Pete and his twenty-something fiancée, Summer. Or Ryan and his long-ago lover and damaged daughter. Ours had been a mutual, unspoken complicity, both dancing around the edges of our respective pasts. It was better that way.
Ryan.
I hadn’t expected Ryan to call. Yet, arriving home, I’d felt hope on seeing the pulsing red beacon.
Three voice-mail messages. Katy. Pete. Hang-up.
My daughter wanted to discuss Saturday’s shopping excursion. Sure she did.
My estranged husband hoped to arrange a dinner for me to meet Summer. That was as likely as pork chops on Shabbat.
The blades twirled crazily.
Ryan.
Was he happy reunited with Lutetia? Was it really over between us? Did I care?
Easy one.
Should I care?
Pete.
Don’t go there.
Charlie.
Enough.
The Lake Wylie corpse.
What had bothered me about the body? The paucity of maggots, given Funderburke’s statement? The absence of smell or signs of scavenging? The missing head? The symbols carved into the flesh?
Duh, yeah.
Was the Lake Wylie case somehow tied to the Greenleaf cellar? If so, how? The former suggested Satanism. The latter looked like Santería or a variant such as Palo Mayombe.
What had happened to the Lake Wylie kid’s head?
Sudden image. The hunk of brain buried in the cellar cauldron.
Was it human? Note: Ask Larabee.
My pessimist brain cells threw out a thought.
Mark Kilroy’s brain was found floating in a cauldron.
Adolfo de Jesus Constanzo and his followers were an aberration of Palo Mayombe. They were not Satanists.
Kenneth Roseboro.
Was Roseboro being truthful about the house on Greenleaf? His tenant? Where was T-Bird Cuervo?
Cuervo. Wasn’t that Spanish for “crow”? Thomas Crow. T-Bird. Cute.
What story would Roseboro tell in the morning?
The mutilated kid at Lake Wylie.
The cauldron bones.
The school portrait.
Boyce Lingo.
Charlie Hunt.
Pete’s nuptials.
Ryan’s détente with Lutetia.
And on.
And on.
Jumbled images. Confused musings.
But not as confused as they were about to become.
14
THE CMPD IS HEADQUARTERED IN THE LAW ENFORCEMENT Center, a geometric hunk of concrete looming over the corner of Fourth and McDowell. Across the intersection is the new Mecklenburg County Courthouse, site of Boyce Lingo’s most recent performance.
All detective units are on the second floor at Law Enforcement. At 8:00 A.M. I presented ID, passed security, and rode the elevator ass to elbow with cops and civilians gripping cups from Starbucks and Caribou Coffee. Conversations centered on the upcoming long weekend.
Columbus Day. I’d totally forgotten that Monday was a holiday.
No picnic or barbecue for you. Loser.
Kenneth Roseboro presented himself ninety minutes later than Slidell had ordered. His tardiness did not put Skinny in the best of moods.
Nor did the sludge that passed as coffee in the homicide squad room. While waiting, Slidell and I knocked back a full pot. Rinaldi was out showing the cauldron portrait to school photographers, so I was on my own with his partner’s bad humor.
This did not put me in the best of moods.
Slidell’s desk phone finally rang at 9:37. Roseboro was in interrogation room three. The sound and video systems were up and running.
Before entering, Slidell and I paused to view Wanda Horne’s nephew through a one-way mirror.
Roseboro was seated, sandaled feet jiggling, spidery fingers interlaced on the tabletop. He was maybe five-two, a hundred and twenty pounds, with an oddly elongated head that balanced on his neck like a budgie on a perch.
“Nice hair,” Slidell snorted.
Roseboro’s scalp was looped by concentric circles of ridges and furrows.
“He’s got a three-sixty wave,” I said. “Like Nelly.”
Slidell looked at me blankly.
“The rapper.”
The look did not change.
“Jaunty shirt,” I segued. It was lime and large enough to shelter a racehorse.
“Aloha.” Slidell hiked his pants. The belt settled above a roll that masqueraded as his waist. “Let’s sweat this prick.”
Roseboro started to rise when we entered the room.
“Sit,” Slidell barked.
Roseboro folded.
“Glad you could make it, Kenny.”
“Traffic was heavy.”
“Shoulda set out earlier.” Slidell regarded Roseboro as he though he were scum in a drain.
“I didn’t have to come here at all.” Roseboro’s tone fell somewhere between sulky and bored.
“You’ve got a point there.” Slapping a folder onto the table, Slidell dropped into a chair opposite his interviewee. “But an upstanding citizen like you, what’s a little personal inconvenience, right?”
Roseboro shrugged one bony shoulder.
I seated myself next to Slidell.
Roseboro’s eyes slid to me. “Who’s the chick?”
“The doctor helped me clean out your cellar, Kenny. You got something to say abou
t that?”
“How much I owe you?” Smirking.
“You think this is funny?”
Again, the shoulder hitch.
Slidell turned to me. “You hear something funny?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“I didn’t hear nothing funny.” Slidell refocused on Roseboro. “You’ve got problems, Kenny.”
“Everyone’s got problems.” Nonchalant.
“Everyone don’t have a little palace on Greenleaf.”
“I told you. I haven’t been in that house since I was nine years old. Blew my mind when the old lady left it to me.”
“Auntie’s favorite nephew.”
“Auntie’s only nephew.” Still unconcerned.
“No kids of her own?”
“One. Archie.”
“And Archie would be where these days?” Slidell kept his voice set on scornful.
“Cemetery.”
“That’s amazing. I ask where’s Archie, you come back with cemetery. A sidesplitter, right off your head.” Again, Slidell turned to me. “Isn’t he something? Firing off one-liners, just like that?”
“Hilarious,” I agreed.
“Archie died in a wreck when he was sixteen.”
“Condolences for your loss. Let’s talk about the cellar.”
“Best I can remember, there were spiders, rats, rusty old tools, and a shitload of mold.” Roseboro snapped a finger, as though in sudden understanding. “That’s it. You’re busting me for failure to maintain safe housing for my pets. Animal endangerment, right?”
“You really are a scream, Kenny-boy. Bet you’re hoping to make the comedy channel.” Another Slidell lob to me. “What do you think? We’ll be surfing one night, there’ll be Kenny with a mike in one hand?”
“Seinfeld got his start doing stand-up.”
“Only one problem.” Slidell drilled Roseboro with a look that said he was far from amused. “You ain’t going to be standing up, or walking out, or going nowhere, you don’t start making a little effort here, asshole.”
Roseboro’s face showed only indifference.
“Chateau Greenleaf?” Slidell clicked a ballpoint to readiness over a yellow legal pad.
“As far as I know the cellar was used as a laundry and pantry. And I think there was a workshop down there.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, man.”
