Mummers' Curse

by Gillian Roberts

  Quentin Reed’s mouth curled into a beneficent I-have-compassion-and-pity-for-your-unbelievable-ignorance smile. “I’m sure you’ll agree that a six-year-old is a much more vulnerable spectator than you would be. And death is so final, so absolute.”

  Not a whole lot of room for debate there. What could I retort? That now and then there were temporary deaths? She’d have me shrink-wrapped in a white jacket within seconds. So I smiled, nervously, agreeing with who knew quite what. However, even if she’d said something grossly incorrect, how can you convince a serenely self-assured, certified mentally healthy professional that you are fine if she doesn’t think so? The more intense the protests, the more smugly superior the pro becomes. Nonetheless, probably because I am demented, I pushed on. “We didn’t see the shooting. We didn’t see his wound. The actual crime probably didn’t take place anywhere near where we were. The wind and momentum and maybe tradition kept him moving, possibly for blocks. We only saw him slide—”

  “Yes, yes,” she said. “You’ve made that clear. I must say that I’m not only worried about Karen, but about you. Perhaps more so. You are in serious denial. You’ve been on what was intended to be a happy, bonding outing and instead, you’ve witnessed a hideous murder.”

  “I’ve been trying to say that we didn’t witness the—”

  “And you have the maturity to comprehend its full significance,” she barreled on. “Not only was the man murdered, but so were your dreams and hopes for the day.”

  Were the two things equal? One dead man versus my soured plans?

  “It isn’t healthy to stuff feelings,” Quentin Reed said. “Makes you sick.”

  Was she actually Beth’s friend? Did they talk this way to each other all the time? And weren’t shrinks supposed to listen? “Doctor,” I began, then I had a thought. She was going to be peering into Karen’s psyche. “Your specialty—your branch of medicine…that’s an M.D.?”

  Quentin cleared her throat.

  “In…?” I was being rude, but so was she, reaming my brain with a pickax and without invitation. “Child psychiatry?”

  “A D.P.M. actually. I was originally a podiatrist.”

  A foot doctor, indeed.

  “Of course, I then got a master’s in therapy.” From a diploma mill, I’d be willing to bet. I flashed my sister a look. Was she listening? Horse-the-dog clomped back down the stairs, his rump wiggling with each step. My mental health didn’t trouble him in the least, and he came over and sat on my feet.

  “Sweetie,” Beth said over-brightly, in a tone she generally reserved for her children. I understood how mentally mature she considered me. “Why so resistant? Why not take advantage of Quentin’s presence?”

  The rock-bottom truth is that I believe that stuffing and stifling selected feelings can work toward the general good, also known as civilization. Not stifling leads to freeway snipers, mail bombs, and talk shows. Be honest, who’d you rather have across the table for the long haul? Queen Victoria or Geraldo?

  What’s so great about mental health, anyway? For starters, what would it do to literature? What kind of novel would a self-actualized Anna Karenina produce? What play would be left if Quentin Reed had worked through Macbeth and his lady’s power drives? How interesting would a serene Holden Caulfield be? A Joan of Arc medically relieved of those voices?

  Stories require neurosis, psychosis, obsession, and delusion, so why abet anyone attempting to squelch those things?

  The dog was the only perfectly adjusted creature around, and while he was delightful in a canine way, you really couldn’t base an opera—even a soap opera—on his life and times. We need mental disturbances and stifled emotions.

  But my sister looked so desperately concerned that I apologized for my perversity. “I knew—know—one of the Mummers in that club, so I have a personal reason and concern in addition to normal worry.”

  I had made things worse. “You knew him?” Beth looked ready to cry.

  “I hope not, but I don’t know. I don’t know who was shot. The costume, you know, the makeup. The distance. That’s why I don’t think Karen was overly—”

  “You knew a Mummer?”

  “I hope I still do.”

  On the Air looked as astounded as if I’d claimed familiarity with a Martian, not somebody from the other side of City Line.

  Beth shut her eyes. As if by knowing one of them I’d been contaminated and, much more significantly, had endangered her daughter. That because I knew one, had a link, the dead man had chosen to die at Karen’s feet.

  Beth was a basically good person. Even more than basically—she was a good on-the-top person, too. But her domesticated life in the green suburbs was corrupting her, leaving her too surprised by and incredulous about reality.

  “Time to head back,” I said. “Mackenzie will be home any minute.” I wiggled my toes, signaling Horse to dislodge. He turned his head and licked my fingers.

  “Where is he, then?” Beth asked worriedly. “I thought he had the day off. I thought the two of you were taking Karen to the parade. Is he working?” Beth turned to Dr. Quentin. “Her, um, boyfriend. They live in a warehouse.”

  She made us sound like squatters huddling in the deserted shell of a building. She had never been snotty about my tiny Trinity house. Its three and a half rooms wouldn’t have filled a quarter of the loft, but living in the cramped former abode of a poor Colonial person obviously had more panache than living in the spacious former residence of Oriental rugs.

  And boyfriend? C.K. was thirty-five. I was thirty-one. A little long in the teeth for boy-and girlhood.

  I gritted my long teeth and reminded myself she meant well. “We were there,” I explained. “At the parade. As observers. But Mackenzie’s a homicide detective. There were thousands of people freaking out, a blocked street, a dead man. He went to help. He has to.” Here I was, justifying behavior I otherwise complained about.

  “Ah, a homicide detective. And by attempting to identify with him, no wonder you can be so…matter-of-fact about death,” Quentin Reed, healer, said. “But the strain—you’re a teacher, a nurturer, not someone accustomed to death. In any case, your friend’s at work and it’s cold and dark outside. Why don’t you stay? Have a cup of tea, put your feet up. Ventilate. Pals talking. This isn’t a session, merely a chance to unburden yourself.”

  It would be rude to suggest that she wasn’t my pal. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m fine.” I was about to remind them that the Doc, needed or not, was on call for my niece, except that I had a moment’s horrified speculation that maybe Beth had summoned her for me all along. “Karen will be fine, too,” I said, sidling as close as I dared to suggesting that no shrinks—or podiatrists—were required.

  Ah, but I had forgotten that my niece, once again mesmerized by the never-ending parade in the next room, wanted to be a Mummer. Wait till she told her mama. Dr. Reed would go off the air and become a permanent resident, a household appliance.

  “Never hurts to be cautious, does it?” the doctor asked with a knowing smile.

  I’m not certain caution ever helped, either, but instead of saying so and appearing even more contrary and city-ruined, I made my farewells.

  The dog seemed truly sorry to see me go.

  Three

  BY THE TIME MACKENZIE ACTUALLY CAME HOME, THE SKY HAD FALLEN. The howling wind whipped snow around buildings, and my man looked as if it had mugged him.

  His red nose contrasted dramatically with his frost-bleached skin. “Took forever,” he groaned. “Nobody wanted to move, to lose their spot, in case the parade was still on or in case TV cameras were coming. Nobody had seen anything more than what we saw.”

  “Please—I hope this isn’t rude, but can we cut to the chase? Who was it? What happened?”

  When Mackenzie is stressed, his Southern speech patterns intensify, which is to say, slow down, slur out, and take too long for this short-tempered Yankee to bear. And Mackenzie was most definitely stressed. I offered him mulled wine in
partial atonement for my inherent impatience.

  “Fellow named Patricciano,” he said.

  “Thank heavens!” I realized how cold-hearted that sounded. “I mean—”

  “I know. It wasn’t your friend or anybody you know.”

  But as I poured a mug of the hot spiced wine, I saw a face. Dark hair, dark eyes. Puckish features filled with ready charm. Patricciano. “What’s his first name?” I asked.

  “James.”

  I inhaled long and heavily and remembered the evening Vincent had taken me to his Fancy Club. His friends and fellow members didn’t want me inside at first, and then, when they relented, it was only for a controlled and censored peep. They were afraid a journalist—for so Vincent presented me—an outsider, and worst of all, a female, might describe the suits they were finishing. Their themes and designs were secret, known only to them and a priest whose job it was to tell clubs if they’d inadvertently chosen the same idea. That’s as far as the information was supposed to go until the New Year’s Day parade. The competition between clubs might be good-natured, but it was also real. The prize money was minimal compared to the cost of the suits, but winning was important. Designs and details were as carefully guarded as state secrets.

  But later that evening, several of them had coffee with me at the Melrose Diner. I met Vincent’s wife, Barbs, who was overly cordial and nervous. Also a silent, dull fellow named Fabian with a silent, dull chip on his shoulder, and a brother and sister, Stephen and Dolores Grassi, both dark, fine-featured, and quiet, although Dolores’s hair was spectacular, rising above and around her small face like a Mummer’s headpiece. Dolores’s fiancé was also there, and he was the man whose puckish face attracted me, not because of its features, but because of the personality behind them. He was also the most helpful and charming of the assembled Fancy Club members.

  “They called him Jimmy,” I said. “Jimmy Pat. He was a nice guy—cute and funny. Very animated. Engaged to a girl named Dolores Grassi. They’re getting—they were supposed to get married soon. Poor Dolores! He drives—drove a produce truck for a group of Jersey farmers. What a shame.”

  Mackenzie looked gratifyingly amazed. “While acquiring his entire family history, did you also find out why somebody’d want to kill him?”

  “Vincent must be distraught. They’ve been friends since childhood. So were their fathers. Tommy Pat, Jimmy’s father, was like a dad to Vincent after Vincent’s own father died. That’s how come Vincent joined a Fancy Club, even though lots of his relatives are in String Bands. Because Tommy Pat belonged to it and brought him in when he was fourteen.”

  I could sense C.K. listening only halfway, waiting with unpleasant information to hand me in an unwelcome trade. “What is it?” I asked.

  “Devaney was the only name I knew in that club, so when we were surrounded by upset, not particularly sober Mummers and spectators, I thought maybe I should talk to him.”

  I didn’t like his sidewinder approach, slowly told or not, didn’t like the hedging, conditional ideas, explanations, and phrases like I thought maybe.

  “His bein’ a teacher and all,” he continued, “I hoped he’d be less incoherent. Calmer by trainin’. An’ I thought, his knowin’ you, there’d be a connection, maybe he’d talk more freely.” He rolled his head to the left and right, as if his neck hurt.

  “Yes, and?” I said it even though I suspected I might be happier not knowing what came next.

  “Couldn’ find him.” Mackenzie paused, one eyebrow raised as he watched me.

  “Meaning what?” I tried to keep my expression impassive. Mackenzie couldn’t see my blood pressure rising, and what Mackenzie couldn’t see or intuit didn’t count.

  “His buddies,” he said, “were confused about his whereabouts. When he finally appeared, one asked where he’d been, and another said the first was too drunk to see somebody next to him. He may have had a point. I’m not sure how much they can notice besides the weather and the music after a few good hours. But apparently, there are diverse opinions as to Vincent’s whereabouts when his fellow Mummer bit the dust.”

  “Why do you sound that way? Why apparently? Why are they divided on his whereabouts and what does it matter?”

  “Muddies things further, is all. Was he or wasn’t he there?”

  “If he wasn’t, then he couldn’t have shot anybody.”

  “So you’d think he’d make it real clear where he was, but he wasn’t partic’ly communicative, even before he realized what’d happened and went into shock, supposedly.”

  Supposedly? “And even if he was there, he wouldn’t shoot anybody—certainly not Jimmy Pat—so why do you care? Vincent can’t be a suspect.”

  “Everybody’s a suspect at this point, everybody who had opportunity.” He wearily ran his fingers through his hair. The salt-and-pepper curls had much more resilience than he seemed to. “Of course,” he said, “if he left the street, we will surely find somebody who saw him elsewhere. It’s not easy bein’ inconspicuous in feathers and shimmery stuff. Of course, even in the parade, there were ten or so of them around the frame suit, all dressed like Devaney, so who’s to know who saw what when?”

  “Does anybody know where Jimmy was shot?” I asked.

  “Stomach.”

  “I meant at what point on the parade route.”

  He shook his head. “He was joking and fine when they set out, pretty drunk within a few hours, but a party boy, according to all, able to handle liquor. And then he was dead. Friends thought at first he was passing out. They thought he’d get it together in time for the judging, and they’d rib him about it all next year.”

  “What about the noise of the gunshot?”

  Mackenzie shrugged. “There are silencers. Besides, given the racket with the brass band and people whistlin’ and callin’ out, who’d hear anything? Who’d think it was unusual if he did hear something?”

  “Is anybody considering—don’t laugh—suicide?” I found the idea ridiculous myself, but still and all…

  Mackenzie sighed. “Where’s the gun, then? And what would be the sense of that, anyway?”

  “Well, how could a killer be invisible?”

  “What if he wasn’t? What if he was right there, twirlin’ and marchin’ and doing his thing, like another Mummer would be?” The suggestion was made in a soft voice which did not make it less ominous. “How about somebody with a weapon under his costume? There are enough flaps and gussets and plackets and whatever-you-call-’ems to hide a cannon.”

  “How about the people who rushed to steady the suit?”

  “The official helpers?”

  “Some looked unofficial, too.”

  “How about somebody ducking inside the suit?” he asked. “It’s the size of a room.”

  “Why would anybody? And wouldn’t everybody notice and remember?”

  “I have been told that despite the rest stop on Washington Avenue, there are those who use the commodious frame suits as mobile outhouses.”

  The idea was disgusting, but then, so was the gigantic urinal tent on Washington Avenue, and Lord knew where females went when nature called.

  Mackenzie had an eloquent, continental shrug that expressed infinite weariness with the world’s evil potential. This time it probably also encompassed the idea of men disappearing into the pleats and panels of frame suits.

  “Wouldn’t Jimmy Pat have shouted? I mean, being shot…”

  “Shot several times, in fact, but who’d hear? Who’d know it wasn’t a normal feelin’-good expression? Also, Jimmy Pat might have been so tanked he didn’t feel the bullet, or he could have gone into shock, or at least not understood what was happenin’, until it was too late.”

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  He finished off his mulled wine. “We need a whole lot of forensics, like calculations of how fast or slow that kind of bleed would go given the temperature, the fact that the victim was in motion, and some kind of reconstruction of how fast or slow the brigade was m
oving. Blood alcohol level. Wind-chill factor. We need to check the street for blood, but how many people strutted over wherever he bled, and now, this snow is not helping. And then what I’m goin’ to do is pray for a miracle. If anybody saw it happen, why didn’t they make a fuss? And if nobody saw it happen, then what?”

  “Surely somebody saw it happen, but they didn’t know they were seeing it happen.”

  “If a person sees a crime in a forest, but doesn’t know he’s seeing a crime, did he see it?”

  “What is the sound of one homicide detective being snotty?”

  He yawned, and I felt a twinge of compassion. He was tired, disappointed, and frustrated at the prospect of a difficult, if not impossible, investigation.

  He sank into the downy softness of our most recent extravagance, a sofa made of leather so butter-soft and palely glowing, I was sure it had been the hide of something gentle and mythical, most likely a unicorn. I hoped it had died of old age.

  “Ahhh,” he said. “Quiet at last. It hurts to listen to that many people. I must have gotten five hundred names. Not that anybody had much to say, except how horrible this all was and that they didn’t know what the hell happened and they were royally freaked out.”

  “I met somebody named Quentin who’d love listening to their traumas.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You going to tell me his history, too?”

  “Hers. And the only part I know is that her parents really, really wanted a boy.”

  “Wouldn’t anyone’s?”

  I sat down next to him, the better to throttle him. “You’re so easy,” he murmured. “Any time I want to see a cute knee jerk…”

  “I was thinking…”

  He sat up straighter. His hair seemed to uncurl and go on alert. Despite his avowed preference for “smart women,” they sometimes frightened him. Or at least I did.

  “It’s a brand new year,” he said. “Surely Philadelphians have more than Mummers by way of tradition. Don’t you folk make resolutions? How about you make a serious one to—”

  “Stop thinking?”