by Betsy Byars
“I’ll go with you.”
“No.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
“Just go home.”
“Your dad might want to ask me some questions. I might have seen something that would help. I did pass Madame Rosa’s house on my way home today.”
“You didn’t even see me in the upstairs window, rapping on the glass.”
Meat had turned back to the window and didn’t answer. “Oh, your dad’s going back in the house.”
Herculeah walked quickly to the front door. Meat followed anxiously. “Didn’t your dad tell you to wait here?”
“Yes.”
Herculeah pulled on her sweater.
“Well, shouldn’t you do what he says? He is in charge, you know.”
“Not of me.”
“Well, of the investigation. You should do what he says.”
Herculeah swirled out the door. Her hair brushed Meat’s arm as she passed.
“Well, wait for me,” he said. “I’m coming, too.”
6
SCENE OF THE CRIME
Herculeah drew near the crowd. She moved hesitantly, almost shyly, anxious to blend in with the onlookers.
She was afraid she might be recognized as the person who had discovered the body, and she did not want the attention that would bring. She glanced around. The people in the crowd were all strangers. She imagined that neighbors were watching from their windows.
Herculeah stopped beside a woman with a baby on her hip. The woman leaned around her baby and said to Herculeah, “They just brought the body out. You missed it. I couldn’t see who it was, though.”
Behind Herculeah a man’s voice said, “Madame Rosa, I heard.”
“She must have been murdered or there wouldn’t be so many cops, don’t you think? There’s three car-loads.”
“Knifed, I heard.”
“Maybe somebody didn’t like their fortune.”
There was nervous laughter from people who knew they shouldn’t be laughing. Herculeah shivered. She had not felt warm since she had found Madame Rosa. The radios in the police cars droned on, though not even the policemen were paying attention.
A reporter was standing in front of the police barricade, getting ready to be filmed for a segment on the eleven o’clock news.
On cue, she said, “This is the home of Madame Rosa, fortune-teller, the scene today of a brutal crime.”
Herculeah thought she could go up to the reporter and say, “I found the body. I looked all over the house for Madame Rosa, and then I went in the room where she tells fortunes and I saw her foot. Then I lifted the black tablecloth and saw her body. You would be surprised at how long you can look at a dead body before your mind catches on to the fact of death.”
At her elbow, Meat spoke in a low voice. “You shouldn’t be here.”
She glanced around, startled. “Why?”
“I mean, you know, because your dad told you to wait.”
“Oh, that. I thought you meant ... something else,” she finished uneasily.
Herculeah had thought that she shouldn’t be here because she was placing herself in danger.
She glanced around quickly, suddenly aware of the individuals in the crowd. One of these people—that woman, the man in the dark hat, even the woman beside her with the baby—any one of them could have killed Madame Rosa. And whoever it might be knew that she had been in the house, too.
“Oh, there’s your dad,” Meat said. “Lieutenant Jones, we’re over here!” he called.
Herculeah pressed forward through the crowd to join her father.
Meat tried to follow, but the crowd had drawn together and now blocked his way. He ended up standing alone, his hands at his sides. He watched as Herculeah and her dad went up the stairs together to Madame Rosa’s.
Meat’s eyes were sharply focused on Herculeah and her father. He felt a stab of envy—not just because Herculeah was always on the inside of things, and he never was, but also because she had such a satisfactory father.
He could hear Herculeah’s father saying, “Herculeah, I understand you’ve been to Madame Rosa’s often.” Meat wanted to cry out, “I was there once, Lieutenant Jones. Madame Rosa was going to help me find my father,” but he didn’t.
The crowd began to murmur.
“Who is she?”
“Do you think she found the body?”
“Do you suppose she’s some sort of relative?”
“She could be the murderer.”
On the porch, Herculeah paused. She seemed to balk at going inside. Her father put his arm around her shoulders. “You want to sit down for a minute?”
Herculeah glanced at the crowd of curious onlookers and shook her head.
Meat pushed forward protectively. He knew he could make this easier for Herculeah, but once again the crowd wouldn’t let him through. “Excuse me,” he said, “excuse me!” but no one paid him any attention.
By the time he finally got around the side of the crowd, Madame Rosa’s door had closed.
7
FINGERPRINTS
Inside Madame Rosa’s house, Herculeah’s father repeated his question. “You’ve been here often, Herculeah?”
“Not often, no. I used to feed the parrot while she was away.”
“How many times did you do that—one, five, ten?”
“More like ten.”
“And you came every day?”
“Yes. She would be gone two or three days at a time, and I would come every day—usually after school.”
“So you did come fairly often.”
“I guess.”
“And how did you happen to come today? You were looking after the parrot?”
She shook her head. “I was looking out the window and I noticed the parrot was out on the porch and the front door was open, and I knew something was wrong. I didn’t know it would be ...” She trailed off. “I didn’t know it would be death,” she said in a hard voice, as if she was forcing herself to face what had happened.
She turned to her father, her face pale with concern. “I really liked her, Dad. I never wanted to take money for looking after Tarot, but she always had some trick to make me take the money. And she knew I didn’t believe in fortune-telling, but she had a sense of humor about it—she’d read my palm and tell me something funny. I really liked her.”
“Others didn’t?”
“I didn’t say that. Don’t make me say things I don’t mean. I just meant that I liked her. Period.”
“Sorry about that. So when you came in the house today, what happened?”
“Well, when I came in, it had already happened. She was dead, but I didn’t know that.”
“Let’s see. She died at—” He consulted a notebook. “She died between three and three-thirty. They were able to pinpoint the time of death, since they got here so soon afterward.”
“It was probably three-thirty when I came in the house. I knew right away something was wrong. The parrot’s stand was overturned, pictures were upset. And there was something else I couldn’t put my finger on—something out of place—something that shouldn’t have been there or something that wasn’t there. I looked around for Madame Rosa—I even went upstairs.”
She paused and shuddered slightly as she remembered hearing the footstep.
“Go on.”
“When I was upstairs, I heard someone below in the living room or hall. It had to be the murderer.”
“Maybe,” her father said. “Let’s start down here. Show me what you did when you came in.”
“All right, but stay with me, Dad. This has upset me more than I’m showing.”
He put his arm around her shoulder. “I just want you to walk through what you did. I’m right beside you.”
As if in a dream, Herculeah went into the living room. Madame Rosa’s body had been removed from the parlor, but three policemen were still busy—putting objects in bags, dusting for fingerprints.
“What was the first thing you did when yo
u came in the house?” her father said.
“I turned on the lamp.” She pantomimed that, then she went through the rest of her actions—picking up the parrot stand, going to the entrance to the parlor, looking inside.
“But I didn’t see her—only her boot was showing. It was easy to miss that, and I didn’t even notice that the chair was overturned. I didn’t even smell the blood. I guess I’m not very observant.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“Then I went back in the kitchen. There was a pot on the stove. I moved it over here.” She pointed to the pot.
She paused to look around. “Oh, yeah. I looked out the back door. I don’t know why I did that.”
“Did you see anything?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Then I went upstairs.”
She went out into the hall and stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Do I have to go up there?”
“It would help.”
Sighing, Herculeah went up the stairs.
“I opened every door and looked inside. I ended up at the window that overlooks the street. I saw Meat on his way home and tried to get his attention, but I couldn’t. That was when I heard the footstep downstairs. I picked up a metal candlestick—to use as a weapon—came downstairs, saw that the front door was open and nobody was there.”
“Where is the candlestick?”
“I left it downstairs.”
They started down the wide stairs together and entered the living room.
“This is the candlestick?”
“Yes.” She swallowed. This was the hard part. “Then I called Mom, but I just got the answering machine. I straightened some pictures. Then I went into the parlor to pick up the chair—I don’t know what made me do that. And I found the b-body.”
“What’d you touch?”
“Just her wrist. Her hand was stretched out, and I put my fingers like that—” She touched her own wrist. “But there wasn’t any pulse. Then I called you.”
“Good girl.”
“Dad, I think the murderer was in the house most of that time.”
“It’s possible.”
“And also—I’m just remembering this—when I looked in the parlor—this was when I first came in the house—that big book on her table was open. When I came downstairs later, it was closed. Somebody was in this house with me, Dad.”
“It’s possible.”
“Maybe some of the neighbors saw the person leave.”
“We’re checking with them, but the place is so overgrown that somebody could slip through the shrubbery and get to the alley without being seen, particularly if it was someone familiar with the neighborhood.”
Herculeah’s shoulders sagged. “Can I go home now? I don’t feel so good.”
“In a minute. Frank wants to get your prints.”
She drew back. “My fingerprints?”
“Yes.”
“Dad, you don’t think I did this?”
“Nobody thinks that, Herculeah. It’s just that your fingerprints are all over the house and we need to eliminate them.”
She looked down at her hands. Tears filled her eyes. “I did not do it!” she said.
8
THE MIME
Someone tapped Meat on the shoulder, and Meat screamed.
Meat had left the crowd and crossed the street—he did not want to be trapped behind them again. He now stood by Herculeah’s walkway, waiting for Herculeah and her father to come out of Madame Rosa’s. He was so intent that the touch actually terrified him.
He turned. He almost screamed again. It was the local mime, who had tapped him on the shoulder with his white-gloved hand.
Meat had never seen the mime up close before, because he always crossed the street whenever he saw him approaching. Meat would walk ten blocks out of his way to avoid contact with the painted white face now at his shoulder.
Beneath the white paint, the mime’s features looked small and foreign. His eyes were unreadable.
“What do you want?” Meat asked, in a voice that was not quite steady.
The mime pointed to the police cars and asked in a series of exaggerated shrugs what had happened. Meat wanted to yell, “Speak English.”
He did not. Also, Meat decided, he would not lower himself to pantomiming back. He said, “I believe Madame Rosa has been murdered.”
There was another of those annoying, questioning poses from the mime.
“No one knows who did it,” Meat said, speaking loudly, as if to someone hard of both hearing and understanding.
The mime now went into the various possibilities. He clutched his hands to his throat, strangling himself. He shot an imaginary pistol at himself and gripped his stomach in pain. He drank poison and rolled his eyes up in his head. He stabbed himself in the chest.
Meat nodded quickly and stabbed his own chest. He gave a shiver of disgust at himself for falling into the mime’s trap.
He had seen it happen often in the park. A perfectly normal person would be tricked into an imaginary tug-of-war with an invisible rope, or pulling a piece of invisible string out of the mime’s mouth, or putting an imaginary coin in the mime’s back.
Meat noticed that Herculeah and her dad were out on the porch now. He felt a wave of relief. “I’m sorry,” he said, turning to the mime. “You’ll have to excuse me now....” But the mime was gone.
Meat recalled that no one ever saw the mime coming or going. He was just suddenly there, on a street corner or touching your shoulder. Meat gave a slight shudder, remembering the tap of that gloved hand.
Meat watched Herculeah and her dad intently as they crossed the street. Herculeah’s father’s arm was around her shoulders, and she looked dazed and miserable.
Meat’s eyes burned with the desire to be part of their conversation, no matter how painful it was. As they came closer, Meat picked up the first scrap of conversation.
Herculeah’s father was saying, “I’ll stay with you till your mom gets home. Where is she anyway? Is she always this late?”
“I don’t know. She told me where she was going, but I can’t remember.”
At that, Meat stepped forward purposefully. “I can answer that, Lieutenant Jones. Mrs. Jones is trying to find a missing dog.”
Herculeah turned toward Meat as he spoke, but her look was blank, as if she couldn’t place who he was. Her father’s look was not one of gratitude, as Meat had hoped. Indeed, the lieutenant gave a snort of disgust.
“Wouldn’t you know it,” he said.
One of the reasons Herculeah’s parents had divorced was because her father scorned her mother’s detective work. Herculeah was too drained of emotion to be concerned about her father’s antagonism now.
“Actually, it’s more than a missing dog. It’s a kidnapping. The dog has been kidnapped.” Meat spoke very seriously, as if he were giving testimony. “The couple’s getting a divorce, and the man kidnapped Trip—that’s the dog—he was named for their vacation to Laguna Beach—and Mrs. Jones was hired by the wife to—”
Lieutenant Jones cut Meat off with a gesture that was so effective, Meat thought he must have perfected it in his police work.
Only Herculeah’s look of distress gave Meat the courage to continue.
“I’ll be glad to stay with Herculeah, sir, if you have to get back to”—he nodded in the direction of Madame Rosa’s house—“you know, the scene of the crime.”
“I’ve got time.”
“So have I. I’m free till supper, and we’re probably having leftovers, so—”
“Thanks anyway.”
Suddenly Herculeah turned around and looked directly into Meat’s eyes. Her eyes were filled with tears that began to spill over onto her pale cheeks. The misery in her face was so intense that Meat stepped back, almost falling off the curb.
“Meat,” she said. “I had to be fingerprinted!”
Then she turned and ran into the house.
Meat stood without moving. Lieutenant Jones d
idn’t seem to be able to move either. “Herculeah couldn’t kill anyone!” Meat burst out. “She’s the most gentle person I know. She cares about everybody. She’s strong but—”
“I know Herculeah couldn’t kill anyone,” Chico Jones interrupted angrily.
Meat’s mother came around the corner then, a small bag of groceries in one arm. She stopped as she saw Meat and Lieutenant Jones together. Her eyes moved to the police cars in front of Madame Rosa’s house.
“What happened?” she asked.
Meat looked at his mother. His eyes narrowed. He remembered that the only thing she had ever said about his father was “Good riddance.” He remembered that when Madame Rosa had tried to help him—when she had helped him—at least told him his father had something to do with dance—his mother had put an end to any further help by going over to Madame Rosa’s in a rage.
He remembered he had said, “Where are you going?”
He remembered she had answered, “To tell that witch to mind her own business. I could kill that woman.”
“What has happened?” she asked again, with what Meat thought was false concern.
Meat spoke in a cold precise way. He was glad Lieutenant Jones was there to hear his words.
“You will be happy to know,” he said, “that Madame Rosa has been murdered.”
9
A SUSPECT
In the living room below, Herculeah’s mother’s voice rose with concern. “Chico, Herculeah thinks you suspect her!”
“I don’t suspect her! That’s ridiculous.”
“Well, she thinks you do. She’s in tears up there in her room.”
“She’s in tears because she found a murder victim. She needs to cry. She’s not as hard and cold as you are, thank God.”
Herculeah lay on her bed listening to her parents’ angry voices below. Her mother had come home a half hour earlier, put Herculeah to bed, and then gone downstairs to talk to Chico. Herculeah wanted to get up and close the door, but she was exhausted.
“You didn’t have to fingerprint her. She washed her hands five times before she got into bed.”
“Look, Mim, our daughter was all over the house, she touched everything, and they just wanted her prints for purposes of elimination.”
