by JOAN HESSS
“You’ll never guess where I went this morning,” I began coyly.
“Then there’s no point in trying, is there?” she said, not nearly as enthralled as I’d hoped. “I’m having a few people on Christmas Eve for nog and nonsense. Caron’s welcome to come, but she’ll probably go into a coma at the suggestion. Can you and Peter make it?”
I told her where he was and why, then said, “He sounded as though he’ll stay there until either his mother stuffs a negligee in the pocket of her mink coat and vanishes, or Myron is exposed as a polygamist with weeping wives scattered across the country like fast-food franchises.”
Luanne chuckled. “Maybe this’ll cause him to rethink his position on matrimony and stop bugging you to tie the knot and don the gay apparel of legirons and joint tax returns.”
“Maybe,” I said, then changed the subject by telling her about Caron’s job at Santa’s Workshop. “Do you want to go to the mall with me this evening?” I added. “For fifteen bucks you can sit on Santa’s knee and whisper your kinkiest fantasies in his ear.”
“I might. What does he look like?”
“Well, Luanne, his nose is like a cherry and the beard on his chin is as white as the snow. When he laughs, his little round belly shakes like a bowlful of jelly. All in all, he’s a right jolly old elf.”
“Ho, ho,” she said without inflection. “Pick me up at six and we’ll check him out. Under all that fur and felt and excessive facial hair may well be a muscular bimboy who’ll fill my stocking on Christmas Eve.”
After I’d hung up, I realized I’d never told her about my early-morning activities. I was curious to find out what progress Jorgeson had made—if any—but I suspected he might not appreciate a telephone call any more than Peter would have. Malthea had not elaborated on her comment that Nicholas’s death might not have resulted from natural causes, and had never really given me a clue as to the source of the friction the previous evening. Nicholas had objected to Gilda’s desire to celebrate the winter solstice without “the artificial restrictions of clothing,” to use Morning Rose’s phrase. The conflict, however, seemed more a matter of squabbling over policy than a calamity of measurable magnitude. What’s more, the remarks in the grove seemed to imply Nicholas had emerged the victor.
I pushed aside the sparse notes and propped my face on my hands, wondering how I’d react if Peter came home and never again mentioned matrimony. Relieved—or rejected? Could our relationship continue indefinitely until the time came when we were more interested in sharing our beds with heating pads than with each other?
The telephone jangled me out of my thoughts. As soon as I’d picked up the receiver, Malthea said, “Would it be possible for you to come to my house? I just don’t know what I should do, and Fern’s no help whatsoever.”
“I might be able to come by tonight,” I said.
“That may be too late.”
“Why, Malthea? I have a business to operate, and I can’t leave a note on the counter asking customers to write themselves a receipt and make change from the drawer. I’d come back to empty shelves and an emptier cash register.”
She snorted. “If that’s your attitude, then I shall walk to the store. My arthritis will slow me down, but I should arrive there in an hour or so—unless, of course, it begins to rain. In that case, it may take much longer. At my age, I must be cautious about falling and breaking a hip. When that happened to a neighbor of mine, her husband put her in a nursing home and took up with a woman who allowed their Siamese cat to choke to death on a chicken bone.”
I looked out the window at the cloudless sky, sighed, and said, “I can’t stay more than half an hour.”
“That should be adequate. I’ll fix some sandwiches and we’ll have lunch while we talk.”
At noon I hung the “closed” sign on the door and drove to Malthea’s duplex. I again raised my hand to knock on the door on the right; this time it opened before I could make contact. Malthea pointed at Fern’s door, put her finger on her lips, and pulled me inside.
“I don’t want Fern to know you’re here,” she whispered as she propelled me through the living room and into a cramped kitchen. “Sometimes I get very annoyed with her, as I’m sure her husband did before his excruciatingly painful demise.”
“Why did you call me?” I asked bluntly.
“Sit right here,” she said, gesturing at a dinette set with two place mats, forks, and paper napkins. “You do like tuna fish salad, don’t you? Merlinda’s very fond of it. I considered making deviled eggs, but it didn’t seem right after what transpired this morning. The police officer assured me that he died instantaneously.”
I assumed she meant Nicholas had died instantaneously, as opposed to Corporal Billsby. “What else did he say?”
“Not very much.” She took a plate of sandwiches from the refrigerator and turned on the burner beneath an aluminum teapot. The telephone began to ring in the living room, but she seemed oblivious of the sound. “The young woman at the police department asked me a number of questions, but I couldn’t really tell her anything useful. We finished putting up decorations shortly before nine o’clock, relaxed for a few minutes, and then said good-night and left. Fern’s car was a bit balky, so we were still sitting there when Sullivan and Morning Rose drove away and Roy went up the stairs to his apartment.”
“Don’t you need to answer the phone?” I asked.
“The caller will try again.”
The rings stopped as if on cue.
Somewhat nonplussed, I returned to the topic. “Was Gilda there?”
“She’d planned to come on her bicycle, but Morning Rose insisted she ride with them. Yes, we were all there—our happy little grove. The eve of a major holiday is always so invigorating to the spirits, isn’t it? We sang ancient pagan songs like ‘The Holly and the Ivy’ while we sat around the fire and had tankards of mead. Nicholas made his own every fall in preparation for Samhain, using honey from a very special apiary in Salisbury. I do hope I’ll be able to find a recipe.”
I waited until she’d poured boiling water into teacups and brought them to the table. “I’m sure you had a lovely evening,” I said, grinding out the words as politely as I could, “but you and Fern alluded to some hostility that also took place. She was in tears this morning, and none of you looked the least bit like a ‘happy little grove.’ If you don’t want to tell me what happened, that’s fine. Did you tell the officer who took your statement?”
“No, I don’t seem to think I did. That doesn’t mean someone else might not have mentioned it. I hope not, though. Nonbelievers often have difficulty understanding the dynamics of a group such as ours. I’m sorry to have to say this, but Wiccans can be a teensy bit stubborn.”
I pulled back my cuff to uncover my wristwatch. “I am leaving in eighteen minutes. If you desire, we can pass the time debating the recalcitrance of Wiccans or looking through cookbooks for mead recipes. You can expound on why Fern’s husband might have sprinkled belladonna instead of blueberries on his cereal. It’s entirely up to you—but in eighteen minutes I’m going to go out to my car and drive back to the Book Depot.”
“It doesn’t really have anything to do with last night,” she said. “I’m concerned about Roy. He can’t stay out there by himself, not at his age. When his parents left, they asked Sullivan and Morning Rose to look after him. Nicholas then took charge of him. Now I don’t know what to do. It’s impossible to get in touch with his parents, who’re conducting field research in a remote area. There’s no room for Roy here or in Fern’s apartment, and neither of us has any idea how to deal with someone that age. My niece is well over thirty now, but when she was a girl, she was a quiet little creature who was more worried about braces and social clubs than—”
“When are Roy’s parents returning home?” I asked as the tuna fish I’d eaten came to life and started struggling to swim upstream.
“Sometime in the spring. I know his outward appearance is not appealing, but underneath his bellige
rent posture beats a good heart. You were here when he came to repair the back porch steps, weren’t you? He was very polite at the time.”
“My daughter told me that he drives a hearse.”
Malthea took a sip of tea. “Well, there is that. I should think it’s nothing more than a petty affectation, shouldn’t you? He’s merely trying to make a statement.”
The statement Roy Tate was most likely trying to make had to do with the role of Satan in secular society, I told myself as I finished my sandwich. “My suggestion is that you talk to Morning Rose and Sullivan about taking him back in until his parents return. That, or perhaps you and Fern can share one side of the duplex and let him live in the other. At this age, they don’t need anyone to bathe them and tuck them in bed.”
“No, I don’t suppose they do,” she said, “but we don’t know about curfews and homework and pocket money and school lunches. What if he were to take drugs or drink alcohol?”
I picked up my purse. “You may feel you have some degree of moral responsibility for Roy, but you certainly have no legal one. The social services department can provide temporary shelter in a group home until someone can get in touch with his parents.”
Malthea allowed me to make it to her front door before she put her hand on my shoulder. “I noticed an office at the back of your bookstore. Is there also a bathroom?”
“Yes, there is,” I said, “and no, he can’t.” I forced myself to smile at her, noticing for the first time how pale and anxious she seemed. It was evident that Nicholas’s death had caused her more grief than she was willing to acknowledge. I softened my tone. “I’ll call Sergeant Jorgeson and ask him to contact social services.”
“These homes cause more damage than good. What’s more, Roy has told me that if he’s placed in any kind of restrictive environment, he’ll run away. He claims he has ample funds to leave the country.”
“Why can’t he stay with Morning Rose and Sullivan?” I asked. Desperation had added an edge of shrillness to my voice, but I was no longer concerned that Malthea was on the verge of collapsing. Her shoulders were rigid, her mouth tight, and her eyes blazing as she tried to stare me into compliance. “I’ll go talk to them. After all, they were the ones designated by Roy’s parents to look after him. If there was some sort of problem, perhaps we can find a solution so that he can return there.”
Malthea closed the door in my face. I toyed with the idea of banging on Fern’s door and then clinging to her ankles until she agreed to intervene. It wouldn’t have been dignified, I’ll admit, but I was not about to allow Roy Tate to sleep in the Book Depot for even one night.
When I got back to the store, I took out the directory and found the Sawyers’ address. Walnut Street ran through the Historic District, but it had its origin in a seedier tract development, and their house number seemed suspiciously low. Still, it was likely not to be more than a ten-minute drive away, and if I took no action, I had a pretty good idea who would show up at the door of the store at closing time—with a backpack or overnight bag, as well as black candles, sticks of incense, and whatever other paraphernalia necessary to open lines of communication between Farberville and Hades.
As I’d expected, the Sawyers lived in the south end of town, but I was a bit surprised when I realized the development adjoined Nicholas Chunder’s estate. Many of the boxy, semi-identical houses were abandoned, the yards surrounding them overgrown and littered with beer bottles, papers, and the lumps of sodden clothing one sees in such areas, as if pedestrians were unaware as shirts and socks dropped off their bodies. The Sawyers’ house was in no better shape. A bicycle had been left in the middle of the yard, along with broken toys and a moldy stuffed animal of an indistinguishable species.
I locked my car and went up onto a splintery porch. A curtain twitched, then fell still. I waited for a moment, shifting uneasily and assessing the distance to my car, then reminded myself of Caron’s likely reaction if I took in a foster child who drove a hearse. Coward that I am, I knocked on the door.
I would have preferred to deal with Morning Rose, but the day had been going downhill since well before dawn and I wasn’t especially unnerved when Sullivan opened the door.
He stared for a moment, then pulled off discount-store reading glasses and cleaned them with a grayish dish towel, as if this simple ritual would reduce me to nothing more than a twinge of heartburn. He wore a T-shirt and baggy trousers; without a winter coat he was much thinner than I’d remembered. On the other hand, he wasn’t any friendlier.
“I’d like to speak to you,” I said hesitantly.
“What about?”
“Roy Tate.”
Rather than invite me inside, he came out onto the porch and eased the door shut. “Then you’ve wasted your time and gasoline. I am not going to discuss Roy with you or the police or anyone else. My children and wife are forbidden to so much as say his name. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I’m leaving. I drove all the way over here to try to find a place for Roy to stay until his parents can take charge. They left him in your care, didn’t they? Do they know you broke whatever promise you made to them?”
“Probably not,” he admitted, “but I didn’t throw him out on his butt, even though I would have been justified. I found an acceptable place for him to live. Nicholas had him do odd jobs around the estate in exchange for rent, and his parents left money for food and necessities. I’ll have to tell the Tates what happened when they get back in ten weeks, but I feel I did the best I could under the circumstances.”
Guilt had weakened his certitude, and I deftly moved in. “Why did you make Roy move out of your house?”
Sullivan sat down on the top step and rubbed his temples. “I was opposed to him staying here to begin with, but his father’s head of the department and I’m a lowly grad student with a family to feed. Rent’s not cheap, even in this slum. One or the other of the kids is always at the doctor’s or dentist’s office, running up bills. I couldn’t afford to jeopardize my assistantship by pissing off Dr. Tate.” He paused as I sat down beside him, then continued pleading his case. “Roy’s not a normal teenage boy. If I were his father—and thank god I’m not, by the way—I would have packed him off to some sort of adolescent treatment facility. His parents preferred to observe him as they would any aborigine from a diverse culture. They’re big on non-judgmental interpretation. That’s what they said, but I used to wonder if they were intimidated by him—or even frightened.”
“Mr. Sawyer,” I said, “I don’t want to waste any more of your time than necessary. I’ve seen enough of Roy to know he won’t be elected president of his class. What did he do that upset you?”
“I told him up front that I wouldn’t tolerate any hint of satanism in my home. Cosmos and Rainbow are too young to be exposed to practices that might lead them in an unhealthy direction. Roy agreed to this, but within a month I started finding evidence that he was doing as he damn well pleased. What’s more, he was using drugs in his room. What if the children were to come across a bag of pretty green capsules? One evening I came home and found them playing poker on the porch. Do you know what they were using for chips?”
“Pringles?”
“Foil-wrapped condoms they’d found in Roy’s drawer. Teenagers these days—they’re more mature than I was, but maybe I was a hopeless nerd back then. Or maybe it’s just Roy. He swaggers around and acts like a jerk, and for some reason it appeals to women. I guess it’s kind of a disenfranchised antihero thing. You know, like James Dean in that tight black T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. It brings out the maternal instinct in women.”
“Not this one,” I said. “My only instinct was to buy him a bottle of shampoo.”
Sullivan looked away. “But the most important thing was the children’s well-being. Their mother believes they should have total freedom to explore their world, but I believe they’ll thrive in a more structured environment with clearly
defined limitations and an awareness of the potential consequences of their behavior. Which means, basically, that Roy was a bad influence.”
“Was Morning Rose in agreement when you told Roy to move out?” I asked.
“Hardly. She seems to think she alone can save Roy from his perverted belief that he can empower himself through Satan. She is about the only person he says more than the absolute minimum to. All I ever got was a curt response to a question.”
“Can she persuade him to obey your rules until his parents get back? He’s smart enough to know that his only options are here or in a group home. Surely he can restrain himself for ten weeks.”
“I have to think of the children,” said Sullivan.
It occurred to me that Druids could be a teensy bit stubborn, too. “What sort of drugs was he doing? I could arrange for Sergeant Jorgeson to warn him about the consequences of getting caught with an illegal substance.”
“The drug’s not illegal. It’s called ‘Herbal Ecstasy’ and can be bought at any health-food store or New Age record shop. It’s supposed to be a stimulant and an aphrodisiac.”
“An aphrodisiac?” I said. “Are you positive this is legal?”
“Look at the signs in the store windows along Thurber Street. It’s legal for the moment, but the FDA’s liable to ban it before too long.” He flipped the dish towel back and forth, then added, “Do you understand why Roy can’t move back here? My children spend all day being told they can do anything they want in the name of learning. Cosmos has already learned that grass burns quickly in the summer and goldfish can’t survive with peroxide in the water. Rainbow obsesses on dead squirrels. I could search Roy’s room every night, but I wouldn’t be here when he got home after school.”
I glumly watched a haggard dog slink across the yard and disappear under the house, wishing Roy Tate could do the same. “I understand your concerns, Mr. Sawyer. Malthea’s worried about him being out there by himself with no supervision whatsoever—and if she knew about this drug, she’d probably be hysterical. Do you have any suggestions?”
