“How did Martin Livingston die?” I asked, recalling that the foundation’s Web site hadn’t given any details.
“Massive stroke,” said Jeff.
Puma added, “It was very sudden.”
“And unexpected?” Max asked.
My gaze met his as I recalled that Darius Phelps’ death three weeks ago had also been unexpected.
“It took everyone by surprise,” Jeff said. “Martin wasn’t a health fiend, but he kept in shape and took good care of himself.”
“But a stroke can happen to anyone, can’t it?” I said, glancing at Max. “Even people who seem to be in good health? And he wasn’t a young man anymore.”
“Here today, gone tomorrow,” Jeff said, looking morose. “One night he was at an awards dinner. Just another celebrity-filled occasion in a billionaire philanthropist’s daily life.”
I wished Jeff hadn’t used the word “dinner.” It reminded me again of how hungry I was.
He continued, “According to people who were there, Martin looked fine. But then suddenly he collapsed in the middle of the festivities. And three days later, he was dead.”
I frowned. “It took him three days to die?” I had assumed that his death by sudden, massive stroke meant he had died instantly.
“Yes,” Puma said. “He passed away at Harlem Hospital. My mother was still alive then—she died last year of cancer—and she was one of the nurses taking care of him there. She said he was out of his mind during the three days he spent dying in the hospital. Ranting and raving. Seeing things. Saying crazy stuff. And strong, too—much stronger than you’d expect a man in his condition to be. Even with sedation, they had to keep him in restraints. But they couldn’t stop the internal bleeding. Finally, he went into cardiac arrest.”
“A grim way to go,” Jeff said.
“And so unfair,” Puma added, “when you consider how much good he did. I mean, he certainly changed my life.”
“In what way?” Max asked.
“For one thing, a scholarship from the foundation paid for part of my college education,” she said. “And another Livingston scholarship will be paying for part of my brother’s education. Biko’s starting at Columbia University this fall.”
“Hey, good for him,” said Jeff.
“The reason I was able to open this shop was because I got a no-interest loan from the foundation. Mr. Livingston was passionate about wanting to see independent African-American businesspeople thrive in Harlem.” Puma continued, “The foundation is also where Biko discovered fencing, and that sure turned his life around.”
“Oh?”
“My little brother—and where is he?—was a really smart, independent, strong-willed kid, but he didn’t have a focus for his energy. My father was long gone, and my mother worked overtime at the hospital to support us. Biko was becoming so wild and restless by the time he was twelve years old, we were really worried about how he’d turn out. I was trying to get him interested in Vodou, but it just wasn’t his thing. Anyhow, one day I dragged him to the foundation with me for a Vodou ritual he didn’t want to attend. He saw some boys with swords in the building, and that made him curious enough to go watch the class, and that was it! From that day onward, if he wasn’t at school or at home, we always knew where he was: training. My mother never had to worry about him again.” She smiled at the memory.
“That much have been a great relief to her,” Max said, “as well as a source of pride.”
She nodded as she continued, “After a couple of years, the fencing instructor went to Mr. Livingston and said that Biko had reached a stage where he really needed private instruction from a top coach. The foundation paid for that, and also paid for him to compete in tournaments—some of which he won. And because of that, part of his college education is also going to be paid for by an athletic scholarship.” Puma concluded, “So Mr. Livingston made a huge difference in our lives. And we’re not the only ones. Not by a long shot.”
“Martin contributed a lot to the world,” Jeff agreed.
“And speaking of Biko . . .” Puma picked up the telephone, pressed a speed dial button, then held the receiver up to her ear. A few moments later, she turned her head to stare at it with a puzzled expression.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Still staring at the receiver, she replied, “He answered his phone, said, ‘Not now,’ and hung up.”
“Did he sound as if he was in danger?” Max asked.
She shook her head. “No. Just distracted. And also like he doesn’t want me to call him back.”
“Then we should patiently await his arrival,” Max said. “He will no doubt explain when he gets here.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She put the receiver back in its cradle.
“What sort of man was Martin Livingston personally?” Max asked Puma, returning to the previous subject.
“He was a man of many fine qualities,” she said carefully.
He noticed how measured her response was. “But?”
She shook her head. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. Especially since they may be listening.”
I asked Jeff, “Did you know him well?”
“No. He was personally involved in the foundation, but he didn’t run the day-to-day operations. I spoke to him a few times, but that was about it. He was gregarious and seemed like a nice guy.” Jeff asked Puma, “Why didn’t you like him?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like him,” she said firmly.
“Ah.” His expression changed. “He put the moves on you.”
Puma scowled at him but didn’t deny it.
“What do you mean?” I asked Jeff.
“Martin had quite a reputation. Some people described him as a ladies’ man,” said Jeff. “Other people called it sexual harassment.”
“He made a pass at you?” I asked Puma with some surprise. Also some distaste. Martin Livingston would have been about forty years her senior.
Puma cleared her throat, looking uncomfortable. “He was a man of, uh . . . vigorous appetites.”
“Did he try to force himself on you?” Max asked, aghast.
“Oh, no! No, nothing like that.” Puma looked at each of our faces, then sighed. “All right. Fine. Mr. Livingston grabbed me once, when I went to his office alone to thank him for paying a tournament fee and travel expenses for Biko to compete. My mother usually went to thank him, but she was having her first battle with the cancer back then—I guess this was about four years ago. So I went instead. And since she was sick, I didn’t tell her what happened. I didn’t want her to get up out of her bed and go storming into the foundation to give him a piece of her mind. Which she would have done—and in her pajamas, too!” Puma smiled for a moment as she remembered her mother’s feisty nature, then continued, “I jumped out of my skin and shoved him away when he tried to kiss me. But I think I was more startled than shocked. I knew his reputation by then. He made passes at lots of women. Anyhow, it was embarrassing, but he certainly didn’t get rough or mean about it. He sort of laughed it off. And he never tried it again. Although . . .”
“Although?” Max prodded.
Puma looked at me. “You know how some men can just . . . make you uncomfortable? Because they stand too close when they’re talking to you, or keep touching you when there’s no reason to?”
“Yes. I know.” What woman didn’t?
“It was like that. It was never threatening, but it was . . .”
“Intrusive?” I suggested.
She nodded. “I hardly knew Mr. Livingston, and I didn’t see him often. Sometimes at a special event at the foundation, or once when he came to see Biko compete in a tournament. That kind of thing. But when I did see him, the way he looked at me . . . Well, I always wound up, oh, checking my neckline, thinking maybe it was too low or that my bra must be showing. You know the sort of look that I mean?”
“I do. I get that look from some of the wiseguys when I’m waiting tables at Bella Stella.” Since they tipped m
e well, and I needed the money, I put up with it; I had to be practical. And since Martin Livingston’s generosity was so important to the Garland family, Puma had to be practical, and so she had put up with it, too. I said, “But that kind of thing seems a lot more reprehensible coming under the guise of philanthropy.”
“Oh, the philanthropy was genuine,” Puma said quickly. “He really was a good man in many ways. He cared very deeply about Harlem and the African-American community here, and he did a lot of good. In other ways, though . . .” She shrugged. “Well, everyone has their flaws, and at least his weren’t cruel or destructive. Just, uh . . .”
“Sleazy?” I suggested.
“I was going to say rambunctious.”
“Oh, I think Esther nailed it,” Jeff said. “Sleazy.” He had his own flaws, but rampant promiscuity and ogling women to the point of making them uncomfortable had never been among them. And I could see that the idea of the old man pestering Puma bothered him. I recognized the signs of Jeff’s attraction, having long ago been a recipient; he was definitely drawn to Puma.
An interesting dilemma, considering how uncomfortable he seemed to be with her religion.
Then again, I was a secular Jew interested in a practicing Catholic who thought I might be a dangerous lunatic. So I should probably eschew snarkiness about other people’s love lives.
Turning my thoughts resolutely away from the cop who wouldn’t date me, I said, “And being filthy rich probably made it easier for Martin to indulge in his, er, hobby.” After all, more women would fool around with a sixty-year-old billionaire than with a regular joe of the same age. That was the way of the world.
“Like I said, he had a reputation for that kind of thing.” Jeff said to Max and me, “I think I told you that Catherine was his third wife? Well, they say his first wife got tired of his philandering, so she left quietly in exchange for a huge settlement. The second wife supposedly knew what she was getting into and looked the other way. I guess there are compensations if your cheating spouse is rich and important. But then his hot and heavy affair with Catherine turned into the real thing, and so he left his wife for her. And that divorce, they say, was really expensive.”
“I don’t like gossip,” Puma said with a frown.
“I do,” I said shamelessly. “When did he marry Catherine?”
“The wedding was six years ago,” said Puma.
“And two years ago,” I said, “he died and made her a wealthy widow.” I wondered whether Catherine counted herself bereaved or lucky.
“Well, she’s a lot wealthier than any of us, certainly,” Jeff said, “but not nearly as wealthy as his two exwives.”
“Oh?” That seemed odd.
“He was, you know, a philanthropist by the time she married him. So his fortune’s all tied up in the foundation and managed by the board of directors.”
“You mean that Catherine didn’t get anything?” I asked.
“According to the grapevine at the time . . .” Jeff smiled apologetically at Puma, who was again frowning with disapproval. “She got their penthouse, personal possessions, and some money. Everything else went to the foundation.”
“I heard she’s selling the penthouse.” Puma clapped a hand over her mouth, as if startled that this bit of gossip had popped out. Then, looking sheepish, she added, “They say she can’t keep it up on the money he left her.”
“I was at their place once for a fund- raising party, talking to rich guests about my work at the foundation,” Jeff said. “Just the property taxes on that penthouse would probably be enough to feed Haiti for a month.” He added to me, “Martin was generous, but not self-sacrificing. He liked living large.”
I recalled something else Jeff had told us back at the foundation. “You mentioned that Mambo Celeste took a long time to accept Catherine?”
He nodded. “You bet.”
“The mambo doesn’t really like, uh . . .” Puma paused awkwardly.
“White people. We know,” I said. “Though she seems to like Max.”
“I tried to establish a rapport with her,” he said modestly to Puma.
“To give Catherine credit,” said Jeff, “she patiently put up with rebuffs from Celeste for a long time.”
“Because of her interest in Vodou,” said Puma. “I guess she thought they’d have a lot in common. But Dr. Livingston’s approach is . . . you know, so academic. So dry. She can talk all day about what we believe, but I don’t think she can really understand.”
“Celeste got less rude after the wedding. Maybe Martin put his foot down,” said Jeff. “Or maybe Celeste just figured the marriage meant Catherine was there to stay, like it or not.”
“They seem friendlier since he passed away,” Puma said. “I think the mambo feels some compassion for Dr. Livingston now, since they’re both childless widows.”
“Oh, come on,” Jeff said. “Celeste’s husband didn’t die, he left her. It was years ago, but everyone knows about it.”
“She likes to call herself a widow,” Puma said primly. “I try to respect that.”
It was not difficult to imagine why a spouse might have left the sour-tempered, snake-wielding Vodou priestess. I exchanged a glance with Max and saw the same thoughts written on his expression. But we kept our mouths shut.
“Anyhow, I think Celeste’s just being practical,” said Jeff. “The board of directors manages the money and makes the major decisions, but they don’t pay attention to the daily operations or care about the hiring and firing. Celeste must know that if she’s unfriendly to Catherine, now that for all practical purposes Catherine’s the boss, then there are plenty of other voodoo priests and priestesses who’d probably be happy to work at the foundation in her place.”
It was clear from Puma’s expression that she didn’t like this ungenerous interpretation of the mambo’s behavior, but she evidently also didn’t have a good enough argument against it to say anything.
“Did your houngan work there, too?” Max asked Puma.
“No, he was always too busy serving his own clients.” She explained to Jeff and me, “It’s like serving parishioners, except that since there’s no official church or salary, people pay their mambo or houngan for help, if they can afford to offer something.” Then she continued, looking at Max, “He also used to spend part of almost every year in Haiti even before he moved back there after the earthquake. But Mambo Celeste was here all year round, and the foundation is where she focused her efforts.”
The front door of the shop opened, and we all turned to see Biko enter. He had an unusually long athletic bag slung over his back; I supposed his swords were in there.
“Finally!” his sister said. “Where have you been?”
He flipped over the standard placard that hung on the front door so that people approaching the shop would see a CLOSED sign in the window. Then he locked the door.
“What are you doing?” Puma demanded. “I’m not closed!”
“You are now,” Biko said, joining us all near the cash register. “We have to talk, and we definitely don’t want to be overheard.”
Studying the young man, Max said, “Something has happened, hasn’t it? Something that delayed you.”
Biko nodded. “A cop showed up at the foundation. He was coming downstairs when I was leaving. He’d been in Dr. Livingston’s office, talking to her. And he zeroed in on me as soon as he saw me. I think it was the swords that attracted his attention,” he said with a puzzled look. “Anyhow, he flashed his badge and asked a lot of questions. It took some time.”
“Oh, no.” I wiped a hand wearily across my face. “Was his name Lopez?”
“I didn’t catch his name,” Biko said. “But he did look Latino.”
“About six feet tall, slim, black hair, blue eyes?” I said. “Really good-looking?”
“Really tired looking,” Biko said. “Like he hadn’t been to bed. But I guess girls would call him good-looking. Anyhow, yeah. That’s him.” He frowned at me. “You know him?”
“Connor Lopez?” Jeff said. “Okay, who wants to go out on a limb and guess how he got blue eyes?”
Puma asked, “What did he want, Biko?”
With a sharp glance at me, Jeff added, “Yeah, why was the really good-looking cop asking questions at the foundation?”
Biko took a deep breath as his gaze swept our faces. “Darius Phelps’ grave has been vandalized, and his body is missing.”
11
I felt a combination of shock, revulsion, and doomed inevitably as I absorbed Biko’s statement. Then I asked, “Lopez told you this?”
“The cop? Yeah.”
“And what did you tell him?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
I said in surprise, “He didn’t ask about last night?”
“Oh, he asked me lots about last night,” said Biko. “I told him I was home in bed. And that my sister could back me up on that.”
“Biko!” his sister cried, her volume rising enough to make me wince. “You lied to a police detective?”
“Don’t give me a hard time, Puma.” Biko looked defensive. “I couldn’t exactly say, ‘I was out hunting the baka that ate my dog, officer,’ now could I?”
“Hmm.” Puma looked perturbed. “No, I suppose not.”
“What else did Lopez say?” I asked.
“He mostly asked me a lot of questions about Mr. Phelps.”
“What kind of questions?”
They turned out to be pretty much the same kind of questions that I had asked Catherine in her office. I assumed that Lopez had posed those question to her, too, before encountering Biko.
“So I just kept saying that I don’t know anything about Mr. Phelps’ death—which is true—and that I was at home and in bed last night.” Biko leaned against the counter and let his shoulders slump. “But I could tell he didn’t believe me about that part.”
Unsympathetic Magic Page 14
