Mew is for Murder

by Clea Simon

  “Miss Krakow? This is Sally Hudson. Would you call me? I need to talk to you about something.” Just my luck. I’d filed that story yesterday and I’d bet anything the Tory Row matron was calling to change her mind about it. She’d say she was wrong about half the prices or the kind of wood, or that she’d decided she’d rather not have any photos run after all. According to every rule of journalism I’d ever learned, once you identify yourself to a source and that person agrees to an interview, everything the source tells you is on the record. Nothing can be recanted. But with service features and other “soft” stories, we tended to be more courteous. We weren’t going to force our way into some tony house to photograph cherrywood shelves over the objections of the homeowner. We weren’t serving the public good by insisting that a price quoted for satin-finish paint not be altered. But such easing of the rules, especially for people who did not understand or respect the concept of deadlines—or working journalists, for that matter—had made more than one story like this unnecessarily complicated. Well, that call could wait for tomorrow, too.

  I found my printout of the café story and dialed Shelly’s extension. She was up against deadline—her section had to ship by six-thirty—so we kept the usual chitchat to a minimum.

  “Okay, I’ve got it,” I found myself telling her. “The pianist’s last name was definitely Burch, with a ‘u,’ and the instrument she took out was a kalimba. That’s with a ‘k.’ So are you playing out these days?”

  “Kalimba with a ‘k,’ got it. Isn’t that some kind of thumb piano? Oh, never mind. And yeah, I’m just doing my songs solo now. I may have a Wednesday night residency coming up, maybe for a month at the Friar, maybe at Amphibian. Maybe I should call Carole, too. This acoustic café thing sounds just my speed. Anyway, I’ll let you know.”

  “Do, I’ll try to make it, wherever you are. And, yeah, here it is.” I found the answer to her last question in my notes. “Cover is three dollars. All of the door goes to pay the performers. That it?”

  “That’s it, Theda. Thanks and see you around.”

  I hung up and tried to collect my thoughts. Violet’s discoveries rattled around my head, and I wanted to get back to what I’d been thinking about before we’d headed home. When I’d left the Eagle, the similarities linking Connor and the mysterious Davey had seemed too numerous to be pure coincidence. I’d decided then that I had to track Connor down and suss out the truth. But I was going on little sleep and lots of caffeine, and a vague ringing in my ears reminded me just how zonked I was. In my hypercaffeinated state, was I merely creating an excuse to talk to Connor, to see him face to face and find out if the electricity I had felt on Saturday was mutual? Wasn’t it possible, even likely, that in this state my imagination had gotten away from me? I tried to think the links through—the oil paints, the ready money, the mysterious past, the dark Irish good looks marred only by a chipped tooth. In the quiet calm of my apartment, none of them held up. How expensive were oil paints, and how common? I didn’t know. Had I ever followed up with Connor about his roots? No, I’d been too busy telling him about mine. And as for ready money, well, we had been on a date. Maybe he’d been living on ramen noodles all week to be able to pay my way on a Saturday night. As for tall, dark ladykillers, why was I swallowing the opinion of a married man? Davey could resemble Rumpelstiltskin more than he did Connor. The truth was that all the links were vague, just fuel to my overtired, overheated imagination. I’d just ask him, next time I saw him, what his last day job had been. That’s all I had to do.

  Musetta jumped on the sofa next to me and started purring again. Leaning against me with her solid little bulk, she seemed to be willing me to stay. Warm, comfortable, and with a living backrest, she soon quieted into sleep. How could I disturb her? I’d just rest my eyes for a minute, my hand right by the soft rise and fall of her back.

  The room was dark when I sat back up, the long shadows of twilight stretching to cover the street outside. How long had I been asleep? More than an hour, obviously, and longer than I had to spare. But the nap had done me good—I felt sharper, more alert. And still suspicious. I tested the idea as if it were a broken tooth of my own. Yup, there were still too many similarities between the missing mystery man and Connor for me to be completely comfortable. Besides—ah, here was a sore spot!—I really did want to talk to him, face to face.

  I checked the clock. If I were going to meet Violet by midnight, I’d need to find Connor soon. He’d probably be in one of Ralph’s usual haunts. Then, I’d be able to go over to Lillian’s and help Violet with a clear purpose. Briefly, I considered calling Bill Sherman back, but it was too late for office hours. Besides, I had no doubt that he would keep after me about that missing key, and he certainly wouldn’t condone my rummaging through the old house with Violet. I didn’t think it likely that any will would surface, not in time to rescue those poor cats anyway. But Violet had become a friend, and I owed it to her to help, even if the search proved to be futile. I’d call Bill back first thing tomorrow.

  No reason not to do some of my legwork via Ma Bell though. I reached for the phone, disturbing Musetta, who peeped in protest, found Ralph’s number and dialed. He wasn’t there, and I didn’t want to leave a message for Connor on his voice mail, so I started thinking. Where would either of them be on a Tuesday night? What was happening?

  The Goddess Bookstore happening didn’t seem likely, not given what I knew about those guys. Then it hit me: Tuesday’s Blues. The Tuesday open blues jam, a weekly happening at the Keg, might be a place to start. It wasn’t particularly hip, but Kate, the current owner, had begun to draw a crowd thanks to the chicken wing and spare-rib barbecue she offered for the three-dollar cover. If Connor really was a broke artist, he’d probably have heard about it, and I knew Ralph was partial to barbecue. At any rate, someone there might know something. I stood up, stretched and reached for my boots, only to be tackled by Musetta.

  “Yow, that hurts!” She had thrown her paws around my ankle and although she hadn’t used her claws, she had then bitten me, just hard enough to break the skin. “You’re feeling frisky.” I reached for a pencil and waggled it enticingly. She eyed it for a moment, then jumped for my hand. At least this time she didn’t bite.

  “You want to play, don’t you?” She’d scampered away a few feet and then run back to bat at my boot, which I’d slipped over my vulnerable toes. “You don’t want me to go out, do you little one?” She looked up at me eloquently and I picked her up for one more quick cuddle. “Momma’s got some investigating to do, kitty. But don’t worry, we’ll have a good game of kill the cork when I return.”

  mmm

  First stop, if I was going to make a night of it, was the Mug Shot. Violet had been and gone, but her replacement set me up with a double-shot latte to go. With it I got another surprise: Ethan was sitting at one of the tables, staring out the front window.

  “Hey, I didn’t know you were an addict, too!” I smiled.

  I must have broken into his reverie. He looked up, distracted, but managed a smile. “Nice place. Just found out about it. You’re a regular?”

  I held up the tall, warm carry-out cup in confirmation, and he motioned for me to join him.

  “Welcome to the neighborhood,” I said, taking a seat. It seemed churlish to run off. “So are you settling in around here?”

  “I’m looking around.” Catching my glance at the empty mug in front of him and a plastic stirrer that seemed to have been bent and knotted more than pure utility allowed, he must have realized that this answer didn’t suffice. “I’m at the Y, living there and out of my car,” he confessed, folding the stirrer into a napkin. “Trying to figure out what to do next.”

  “Trying to get out of news, right?” Mentally, I kicked myself for not taking the initiative to get in touch. I knew how difficult breaking in could be.

  “I guess so, I guess so.” He looked past me, out the window. “I’m fed up with everything. But I want to be careful about what I do next. Maybe
I just need a good story to follow. Like, whatever happened with that old lady whose body you found?” He turned to me suddenly, and I found myself drawing back.

  “Lillian, the cat lady?” He nodded. I was being selfish; he knew Lillian was my story. But I had to be honest. “I’d just met her. I’d been planning on a feature, you know, because of all her cats. But I don’t write about murder.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Murder?”

  “Well, to be strictly accurate, I can’t really say.” Time to backtrack to reality. “The cops are still calling it an accidental death, but my friend Violet is convinced that there was some foul play.”

  “Now why would she think that?” Ethan’s eyes shone. Maybe he was a natural born newshound. “What can you tell me? Why does anyone think it’s murder?”

  I really didn’t want to revisit that day. “You should talk to Violet. She knew the woman who died much better than I did, and she works here.”

  He paused, waiting.

  “You can’t miss her. Five-one, bright purple hair. Hard to miss.”

  “Oh, yeah. I was wondering about her. She’s in a band, right? I thought I saw her at the memorial service.”

  I vaguely recalled seeing him that morning, seeing his glasses actually. Poor guy, that’s probably all anyone ever saw. “You were there?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I didn’t want to bother you. I mean, we’d just met. I remembered thinking she was in charge. I really wanted to talk to her afterward, but everyone took off.”

  The trip to the shelter had been open to all, but maybe he’d felt overwhelmed: a bunch of kids, folks from the neighborhood who already knew each other. Then it struck me. He’d wanted to talk to Violet alone. She was cute. Maybe he didn’t realize she wasn’t into guys. How could I tell him? “Um, may I ask why you’re interested?”

  “It’s a good story,” he shrugged, and pushed back his chair. Stared at the ground, like a little kid telling a fib. I must have hit a nerve. “I mean, I wasn’t sure then if you were going to do anything with it. And there was obviously a lot of feeling there. She sounded like an interesting personality. Hey, from what you’re saying now, well, maybe it’s a real murder mystery with tons of local color.” I was off the hook from meddling into his private life. “Do you think they’ve found anything yet?” He picked up the stirrer again, worked on tying one more knot. “Old enemies? Abandoned lovers? Whatever?”

  “Fifty-year-old crime of passion? I doubt it. In fact, I don’t think there’s even going to be any official follow-up at all unless Violet can convince everyone that there even was a crime.”

  His hands were still again. “What’s her stake in it?”

  He was staring at me, and I had to remind myself: this is a guy who has spent most of his life ferreting out facts. Plus, he’s desperate for a meaty story. But Violet’s secrets weren’t mine to share. “I’m not sure, really. It could just be that she liked the old lady too much to let go, and she knows the family.” What was the word Jim Brett had used? Ethan was definitely “intense.” I smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “For a guy who wants to leave hard news behind, you seem very focused on this.”

  He shrugged, and I remembered the rest of my conversation with the staff writer.

  “Sorry about the Northurst job.”

  “You heard about that?” He was suddenly transfixed by a small coffee stain on the table. He had to be embarrassed.

  I sympathized. “Yeah, editors! They love it when they get our work and don’t have to pay benefits, or a regular salary for that matter.”

  “There was more than that going on out there, Theda. I deserved that position. Earned it. Bastards!” He spit out the word, and I realized he was angry rather than ashamed. “I was digging up more on each story than their regular staff guy ever dreamed of. Not that he’d bother even trying.”

  Jim Brett had seemed nice enough to me. “He actually said good things about you. Maybe it was just a personality conflict—”

  “Yeah, I have one. Not that they ever gave me any respect.” He was still staring at the Formica tabletop, but I could see the tension, the knot of muscle, working along his cheek. Well, often enough I’d gotten steamed about Ralph, mulled over how much better I would do if I had the position of the Mail’s staff music critic. Such resentment went with the territory. As freelancers, we had to work harder for our stories than the staffers. We had to hit a home run every time, and we received neither the perks nor the security. But Ethan wasn’t letting it go.

  “Brett and those editors. They’re all humps. I was getting them stories they never would have found themselves, and they knew it. They had it out for me.”

  “I can relate.” I couldn’t really—his anger seemed a little too extreme—but the gesture worked. He looked up at me, as if seeing me again suddenly, and for a moment he smiled. I did, too, and became aware of a foam mustache on my upper lip. I reached for a napkin, and a way out of a touchy subject. “I read your stories—at least some of them.” I continued, wiping away the milky residue. “The in-depth on the halfway house? Great piece.”

  He nodded, accepting the compliment. “There was more that I couldn’t put in. Nothing solid yet, but at least one of those guys was very bad.”

  “The counselor who went missing?” I wasn’t ready to share my suspicions about Connor being that guy, not yet. But he nodded in assent. “Sounds like you have your story.”

  “Not for the Northurst guys. I want to write—really write—but I have no desire to go back to that particular hole.”

  “Well, maybe you won’t have to.” He was silent, staring out the window again. I’d lost him.

  “If you’re waiting for Violet, she’s not working tonight.”

  “No?”

  “She’s playing a benefit over at Goddess Books. I’ll be seeing her later though. Shall I tell her you’re looking for her?” I drained the rest of my latte. Time to get to work.

  “No, no.” He waved me away, once more in another world. “I’ll catch up with her. Don’t worry.”

  mmm

  “Theda! Long time, no see!”

  “I know, I know, I hibernated this winter.” Kate crushed me to her ample bosom in a hug, and I patted her back till she released me. Exuberant as she always was, I didn’t want to explain the whole season of loss, from Rick to James. We’d need a full day and boxes of tissues for that.

  “What’s up with you?” I tried to deflect her attention.

  “Same old same old.” She gestured around the bar and restaurant she’d inherited and, despite her modesty, turned into a thriving business. Her uncle’s bar might have lost some of its former regulars, the nurse-a-beer-for-three-hours crowd, but these days the Keg was packed almost every night. This early I saw two old-timers up by the long oval bar, too, so I gathered her policy of not charging a cover before nine had staunched the alienation of the older crowd.

  “You’re too modest. This place looks great.” It did. The paneled walls of the big, main room had given way to paint, with framed black-and-white photos of musicians lending the high-ceilinged space the feel of a gallery.

  “My little touches.” Kate blushed, clearly pleased, and led me over to one of the newer photos. “Shot right here, three weeks ago.”

  “It’s amazing.” I was being honest. The way the photographer had captured the light shining on the guitarist’s face put his straining mouth and neck muscles in high relief, emphasizing the passion of his playing. His hands, curled around the neck of his instrument and the pick he held, came forward in the composition as well, making a second almost as expressive focus for the eye. “Who shot it?”

  “Connor Davies. He’s new in town. Didn’t even have any fancy equipment.”

  I froze for a moment, and Kate continued.

  “Very sweet guy.” That smile and the twinkle in her eye showed that his charm had worked on her, too.

  “I know him,” I managed to stutter out. “I didn’t realize he did photography.”

  “I
think he also paints. A renaissance man, you know? He wants to set up his own studio; says he’s just trying to raise some funds. He said I was his first sale in town.”

  I didn’t know what to say; the emotion in the photograph seemed so honest, so direct. Could someone this sensitive really have ripped off a bunch of mentally ill people? I had to see him, to see his face, in order to judge for myself. But when I did, would I be able to ask the hard questions?

  Kate had continued talking and I caught the tail end of a sentence. “He didn’t want much, so I gave him trade.”

  I looked over at her rosy, smiling face. My mouth must have dropped open.

  “Barbecue, Theda, barbecue.” She patted my shoulder and started to laugh. “What did you think? Plus, he’s on my permanent house list. I want that boy around. He’s good for business!”

  I regathered my wits. “Tonight. Has he been here tonight?”

  “Not yet, honey, but maybe he’ll show. Joey’s putting the food out now. Why don’t you get a plate of ribs and settle down? The first band’s about to start. Nice kids, South Shore, but the harp player really kicks.”

  mmm

  The ribs were a little sticky, with one of those ketchup-based sauces that are a bit too sweet for my taste. That didn’t stop me from polishing off two plates’ worth by the time the first set by the talented suburbanites wound to a close. Maybe I was eating so much because I was nervous, but I need not have worried. Although I recognized a few faces in the crowd, neither Ralph nor Connor showed. The buffet ended at ten, so I drained my Diet Coke, the third of the night—I wanted to stay sharp—and left a few bucks on the table. Was I being silly? Wasn’t this a wild goose chase? I called Ralph’s number again, and this time left a message, asking either of them to call my cell. But I had two hours before it would be time to meet Violet, so I decided I might as well continue. Waving goodbye to Kate, I retrieved my car and headed over to the Casbah.