Mew is for Murder

by Clea Simon

  In light of my promises to Bunny and Cal, I wouldn’t let myself run by Lillian’s house, “just to look.” Instead, I’d head toward the river, joining the pack who marked off miles by counting bridges. A footpath along the Cambridgeside bank meant cars were no threat, and even the occasional bicyclist knew to give ground to the city’s rabid runners. The scenery—the meandering river, the occasional sculler, and the university’s regal Georgian graduate school on the opposite bank—made a refreshing change from my beloved urban streetscape. And the dappled shade path through the overhanging willows would be sufficient reward for keeping at least two of my resolutions. I queued up the CD in my Discman, an upbeat new zydeco band with a rocking rubboard, and headed out. A whole new week lay before me.

  My muscles, sadly, remembered Saturday’s debauch, and it was quite a while before I was able to relax into the trance-like stride of a real run. But I pushed myself, imagining all the toxins draining out as I sweated, and gave in to a good, long walk much of the way back. Still feeling virtuous, I called Bill Sherman as soon as I got in, picking up his card as I reached for a towel and wiping my face as the precinct phone rang. Voice mail answered, even though my clock read nine-thirty. Did cops work odd hours? I laughed at my own question. One trouble with freelance was that it isolated you, made you think that everyone else held down nine-to-five jobs, when in reality the world was much more fluid. No matter. I left a message, explaining that I’d found something I thought he should know about, and treated myself to a long, steamy shower. My workday hadn’t even started yet, but I’d met three of my resolutions already.

  Time to start on a fourth. My notes on the acoustic café had sat long enough to feel cold and dull, so I put on some Patricia Barber piano blues to get back into the mood and found myself thinking of Bill Sherman. He’d been awfully friendly that night, more than mere courtesy called for, and he’d followed up by phone, letting me know what was happening with the investigation into Lillian’s death, even though the news was that there was no news. Barber’s smoky voice broke, freeing her jazzy piano to wander into that intriguing almost-dissonance that keeps blues fresh, and I let myself listen and, to be honest, daydream. Then the song ended and I looked back at the computer screen. Get a grip on yourself, girl. You’re acting like you’re in heat. A man can still be polite, can’t he? I forced myself to concentrate on the words in front of me. Ninety minutes later I hit “send,” and the story landed in the Mail’s features queue. A phone call to one of Tim’s harried assistant editors confirmed its arrival, and I followed it up with one to the photo department. One down, one to go.

  Finishing up the bookshelf story wasn’t going to be fun, no matter how I looked at it, so I toyed with the idea of taking a break. Wasn’t it time for lunch? Musetta, snoozing on the chair behind me, had nothing to say on the matter, so I turned my computer off. Standing alerted me to a return of last week’s stiffness, and I congratulated myself on the long cool-down walk that had ended my workout. I was barely limping as I made my way down the stairs and out into the growing heat of midday.

  “Warm, isn’t it?” Greg, my postman, was dragging his little cart of mail up the sidewalk. He was already in the gray regulation shorts that distinguished his summer uniform.

  “Boston,” I nodded in agreement. “Spring’s over, summer is already here.”

  “Gotta love it,” he said without much conviction, and reached into the cart’s canvas pouch. He leafed through a stack of envelopes held together with a rubber band. “Here.”

  I looked at what he’d given me. Two bills, one renewal notice for a magazine, and an offer to buy into a timeshare on the Cape, which promised to develop into “a money-making opportunity.” Not likely. I would have to finish that shelving story today. Under these was an envelope with a return address that had “Memorials” as part of its name. It was about James’ ashes, I realized with a start. This was the notice to pick them up. When he’d been euthanized, I’d arranged to have him cremated and paid extra to have his ashes—his cremains, as they called them—kept separate from those of other peoples’ deceased pets, and returned to me. The service had agreed to deliver them to the vet’s office, I now recalled, and to notify me when the remains, in the personalized urn I had ordered, were ready for pickup. I’d forgotten that this step was still pending, and the polite, careful wording of the condolence letter inside made the finality of it all—and my failure to remember—the more dreadful. How could so much personality be contained in a still, silent urn? How could I have been distracted from thinking about him?

  The bright day no longer seemed so glowing as I made my way into Central Square. Was I even hungry? For comfort, I realized, not food. Comfort and maybe a brownie. Walking past the Mexican place with the great salads, I found myself pulling up a stool at the Mug Shot.

  “Hey stranger.” Violet was all smiles in a vintage Disco Sucks tee shirt. “Latte with extra foam?”

  “And a brownie. One of the big ones, with nuts.” I was in no mood to be consoled, but they were awfully good sweets. She came back with a small glass plate overflowing with several large pieces.

  “These were broken, so I’m charging you for one.” They looked very freshly broken, I could have pointed out, but held my tongue.

  “Thanks.”

  “Bad day?”

  I really didn’t want to talk, so I handed her the letter about James’ remains. She started to read it, biting on her thumbnail, and I started to rouse from my funk. What was I doing, handing her a letter about a dead pet when she had just lost a human friend? I almost reached for it back, ready to apologize, when she looked up.

  “This must be horrible,” she said. Her eyes were filled with tears. “Too many people don’t understand. They say, ‘Oh, it’s just a cat.’ I hate that. I mean, we love them like our family and they love us, right? Love is love, right?”

  I could have kissed her then but settled for a weak smile.

  “Thanks for understanding.” Someone called “Latte up!” and she went over to fetch my drink, a tall glass of comfort in a pint glass. I raised it in salute. “I really do appreciate it.”

  “Hey, I know grief,” said Violet, leaning on her side of the tall bar. “Even before Lillian.” She looked down at the blond wood bar and began to pick at a rough edge in the finish.

  “Did you lose someone?” My words sounded trite, but clearly she wanted to talk.

  “Yeah, first love. First loss. You know how it is.” She looked up into my startled face. “Oh, not dead. Sorry, I didn’t mean that. Just, you know, the usual. Heartbreak.”

  “I can sympathize with that.”

  “That’s how I ended up in the practice space. We’d lived together, oh, almost two years.” She was misting up again, so I pushed the plate of brownie bits toward her. She took one, but only picked out the nuts. “I moved out. I mean, I couldn’t keep living there afterward. That’s when I started helping Lillian out. Kept me busy, you know? Gave me somewhere to go. And she’d listen. Man, she was a good listener.”

  “I gather from everything I heard at the memorial that she’d been through a lot of her own hard times.”

  “Yeah.” Violet picked up another piece of brownie and this time ate it, which I took as a good sign. “She was a really tough woman. Hard to believe she’s really dead.”

  “You think that’s why you’re so sure its murder?” I didn’t want to push Violet too much, not when she’d just been so kind to me. But there did seem to be some reality checks in what she’d told me so far.

  “No, I’m sure because I’m sure.” I looked in her face expecting anger or the stubborn set of jaw that shows that confidence is beginning to crumble. Instead, I saw calm resolution. “I just haven’t figured out why anyone would want to hurt her yet.”

  “But the police didn’t see any reason to rule her death as anything other than accidental. Even with the medic-alert necklace.” I hadn’t told her what I’d found, but it seemed immaterial to my basic argument.


  “There you go with the cops again.” She was smiling at me, like I was a child.

  “Okay, then, tell me, Violet. Tell me why you don’t trust the cops.”

  “Hang on.” She went to help a customer, and I watched as she measured out a pound of beans and poured a French roast into a large cardboard to-go cup. Was she stalling or concocting a story? I’d have to be on my toes.

  “Okay.” She pulled up a stool behind the bar and leaned toward me. “About three years ago, when I first came to town, I was really into hardcore. That was when there were all these all-ages shows, not just in clubs but in VFW halls, college dorms, places like that, remember?” I’d been a little old for the hardcore scene when it hit its zenith, but I did recall the popularity of the loud, fast music and the teenage subcultures it spawned.

  “Well, the band I was in then, Right Life, was really hooked up. We were playing around at all the colleges. We were it—the hot band for the parties, particularly on a certain frat house circuit. Which was kind of funny, right? Because we were straight-edge.” She looked at me to see if I got it.

  “Straight-edge,” I repeated. “So none of you drank or did drugs.”

  “We didn’t eat meat or dairy products either.” She nodded. “We were clean, sober, and vegan. Well, I thought we were.”

  “Wasn’t it hard to play the parties?”

  “No, not really. I never had much of a head for alcohol, and those frat boys did nothing to make keg beer look good. What I missed more was the occasional burger, the really thick, greasy ones. Like the Cheeseburger King platter at Charlie’s? I used to dream about ordering one of those. But drugs, booze, no, no loss. And the money at these parties was great. They’d offer us five, six hundred for a four-hour party, and half the time they’d throw in another c-note just for an encore. We were playing all over New England, even in Albany. And all originals, too. Things were really happening for us.”

  “And?” She’d paused and I couldn’t help wondering if she too was trying to figure out what happened next.

  “And the cops fucked us up. That’s what. One night, real late, maybe three, we were pulled over driving back from Portland. A taillight was out, I think, but the cop took one look at us—my hair was green then—and had us out of the van. He had us all spread-eagled and leaning against the side while his partner went through our pockets, our instrument cases, everything. For a while, I thought he was really going to hurt us. He made Jemma, the bassist, fall on the pavement cause he kept kicking her feet farther back and farther apart. He groped her, too; she’s got more meat on her than I do. And he wasn’t too gentle with me either, running his hands up my legs with a bit more force than necessary, all the time he was talking really nasty. ‘So, you ever been in jail? You know what it gets like at night?’ That kind of thing. Finally his partner found something in a baggie and they hauled us all in. That’s when I was really scared, but there was a police woman on duty and she must have known about those jerks. She was rough, but she kept us out of their hands. It was still a very long night.” She paused, obviously remembering details she didn’t care to share. With a deep sigh, she continued.

  “Turns out Neal, the drummer, was sneaking a little toke in between the tofu burgers and seitan. He owned up to it, finally, and tried to get us all clear, but the cops weren’t listening. They were in hog heaven and we spent the night in some shithole on the North Shore and we lost our van. I don’t think Neal did any time. There was barely enough pot for a possession charge. But without the van the band was history. For a bud and a few seeds, history.”

  A small line of customers had formed by then, and Violet went to help her colleague, filling mugs and teapots with a grim look on her face. Finally, the mini rush died down again and she came over. I’d finished the brownie and she picked up my plate and the empty, foam-glazed glass.

  “So you want to know why I don’t like cops? The van and my band and one incredibly shitty night in jail, that’s why.” She wiped the counter where my plate had been and turned to walk away.

  “Violet, wait.” I stood and walked over to where she was stacking the dirties. “I didn’t mean to pry, I just didn’t understand.”

  “That’s cool, Theda. I never meant to be so mysterious about it.” She turned toward me and the anger had gone from her eyes. “Just pisses me off, you know?”

  “Yeah, I do. I do now.” Her story made sense, and made me feel a little guilty about my desire to dismiss her suspicions. Maybe she’d been right all along about Lillian’s death. Maybe once again I was withdrawing from people. I remembered my resolutions. If not now, when? “Violet, one more thing.”

  She looked up from the rack again, ready to hoist the glassware into the washing machine in the back. “Yeah?”

  “Dougie. Do you know him well?” I wanted to ask her about his relapses, about whether he was ever violent toward his mother, but I didn’t dare. Violet’s feelings about authority were clear, and she might be one of those who supported the rights of the mentally ill to refuse medication. I liked her too much to fight right now.

  “As well as anyone, I guess. Why?” She heaved the wide tray to her knee and then up to rest on the counter.

  “I wanted to talk to him, get a feeling for what his role might be in, well, in everything. His inheritance and all,” I added hastily, before she could accuse me of looking to place blame.

  “Well, let’s go talk to him, shall we?” She disappeared into the kitchen area, and I could feel the blast of steam from the open washer. In a moment she was back, wiping her face on a dishtowel. “I’ve been meaning to visit him, now that Lillian won’t be. Let’s take him out to lunch tomorrow.”

  “Lunch?” I remembered those bills, and a few others I had at home.

  “Don’t sweat it, Theda. Dougie’s idea of the high life is a Happy Meal with extra fries. I’ll call the house tonight, but I know he’ll be thrilled. I’ll open tomorrow,” she looked at her colleague, who nodded and reached for the scheduling sheet. “It’s going to be another warm one, just like today, and it’ll be good to get out of the city. Come by at ten and pick me up. We’ll be in Northurst by noon.”

  mmm

  The phone was ringing as I unlocked my door, and I nearly booted the cat as I lunged for it. “Hello?” I tried to catch my breath.

  “Theda, are you all right?” It wasn’t Connor, and I silently apologized to Musetta, who had taken refuge under a chair.

  “Uh, yeah.” I grabbed the receiver and stood up. It was easier to breathe without the sofa back bisecting my middle. “Sorry, I just came in and ran for the phone.”

  “It’s Bill, Bill Sherman.” I silently kicked myself for not recognizing his voice. “You left a message on my machine?”

  “Yeah.” I paused. How to give him the pendant without admitting that I’d been in Lillian’s house? “It’s about Lillian Helmhold.” I tried to think of what to say next.

  “I’m glad you called. I was thinking of touching base myself.” That was nice. His voice was nice, too, warm and friendly. “We’ve had some complaints.” A thought, not yet formed, evaporated. “Theda, are you listening?”

  “Yes, Bill.” If he was going with first names, I wasn’t going to give him his title either.

  “We’ve been hearing from a neighbor that someone has been snooping around Lillian Helmhold’s house. There’d been a strange car, a Hyundai, parked in front of her house—the neighbor’s, that is—and that made her curious, she says. Each time, she thinks she saw someone through the windows. If that’s true, and I have no reason to doubt the report, that means someone is guilty of criminal trespass.”

  “Someone? You mean Violet, don’t you? You want me to tell her to keep out.”

  “I don’t see any reason to come down hard on a grief-stricken girl, but yeah, it does seem likely that it is her, from what you’ve said.”

  “And you’re just taking the word of the neighbor that she noticed a suspicious car? Hasn’t she heard what parking is like i
n this city?” He paused, and I saw an opportunity to drive home my point. “Besides, Violet doesn’t have a car.” I remembered what she’d said about the band van. That wasn’t a car, right?

  “She told you this?”

  “Hey, she’s bummed rides off me.”

  “And you’ve given her rides.” I heard a sigh. “Well, she should stay away from that place. It’s a safety risk, if nothing else.”

  “Safety risk!” Disappointment had turned to fuel for my temper. “Right, as if Patti Wright cared about Violet or the house or the cats, or even Lillian for that matter. She just doesn’t want the property damaged until she can get her own hands on it.”

  “Now, Theda, that’s not fair, and I’m not saying the report came from Ms. Wright. Any neighbor would care. A vacant house is at a much greater risk for fire and other forms of vandalism, even if it’s just from kids hanging out. You don’t have to assume any ulterior motive here.”

  “Maybe I do. Violet’s told me about her history with the police, about how she gets hassled just because of the way she looks.”

  “You can’t think….” Bill sounded resigned, rather than defensive, but I wasn’t stopping for anything.

  “Why not? I can’t think that here, in our liberal city, someone would be hassled for having purple hair?”

  There was quiet on the other end of the line. I’d gone too far. “Bill?”

  “I’m here, Theda. And whatever this girl has told you, I can’t say whether or not it’s true. I can’t speak for everyone on the force. But you might take it with a grain of salt, at least till you hear the whole story. At any rate, I’m not the enemy. Really I’m not.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. It’s been a weird few days.” What had gotten into me? Time to fess up. “I’ve been meaning to confess a little trespassing of my own.”