Solis regarded me in silence.
"And I do recognize him," I conceded.
He blinked slowly and gave half a nod. "From where?"
"He worked in the used bookstore a couple of blocks from here— Old Possum's. I only knew him as Mark, and I didn't make the connection until I saw his face." I shivered again, harder and nothing to do with the sharp tingle of tiny raindrops that had begun falling. Now Lupoldi wasn't just a name on a list, just someone who was horribly dead; he was someone I knew, however fleetingly, who was horribly dead. The situation didn't feel like an accident to me any more than it did to Solis.
He must have seen the speculation on my face. "Ms. Blaine, I don't need to warn you against obstructing an active felony investigation."
"The two cases might not be related," I suggested. "But I won't get in your way. I can't just drop my investigation on the chance that it might parallel yours, but I'll share any information I get that might be relevant. OK?"
"What if it's your client who did this?"
"Then he probably won't pay me and I won't feel too bad about ratting on him," I answered.
Solis almost smiled. "OK."
I started to go, then stopped and looked back. "I'm going to head down to Old Possum's—I know the owner and I can ask her some background questions on Lupoldi. Do you want me to break the news or leave that to you and your partner?"
"I'll do it. I want to talk to the staff later."
I nodded and walked back down the hill. I hadn't put Mark's death out of my mind, or the possibility of some paranormal involvement in it—the look and feel of the Grey in Mark's apartment was too abnormal to ignore. The idea of a killer thought-entity didn't sit well with me, but I wasn't sure which way Occam's razor would cut this time: person or poltergeist?
CHAPTER 6
Old Possum's Books 'n' Beans was one of the first businesses I'd patronized when I moved to Seattle: it was cluttered, overstuffed, and as full of odd objects and comfortable, shabby chairs as it was full of interesting old books and the smell of fresh coffee. I'd run in to get out of one of Seattle's fifteen-minute downpours while apartment hunting. Two hours later I'd still been curled up in a chair with my rental listings, a pile of books, and a cup of coffee, the rain by then long gone. The shop cats had dropped by to vet me—some of them literally dropping from the cat highways over the tops of the towering shelves. Wearing their fuzzy badge of approval all over my jeans and jacket and carting a stack of books for which I didn't even have bookcases yet, I'd been adopted into the shop's ragtag family. The fact that I loved weird old stuff hadn't hurt, either.
The owner, Phoebe Mason, still seemed to see herself as a bit of a surrogate mother to me, though she wasn't much older than I was. Phoebe was working at the front counter when I arrived much as I had the first time, dashing in from a sudden delivery on the promise of rain. I stood in the doorway shaking off the water as she laughed at me.
"Hey, girl!" she shouted, the dim childhood memory of Jamaica lengthening her vowels. "Where you been? And when are you going to buy a proper coat?" She beckoned to the nearest employee to take over while she exited the cash desk island to chivy me. She grabbed my jacket and hung it up on the rack by the door. A sign over the pegs read he who steals my coat gets trashed.
"Hi, Phoebe. I wanted to ask you some questions. Do you have time?
"Sure! Let's go back by the espresso machine. The minions can run the store for a while."
I can't remember when they'd picked up the collective nickname "Phoebe and the minions," but it had become universal among the regular customers and the staff. It made the ensemble sound like a punk band, which seemed to please everyone.
I followed Phoebe to the back, where she evicted the minion from the espresso stand and sent her out to police the shelves. We were alone in the coffee alcove with its fake fireplace and grand mantel of papier-mâché stone guarded by cat-faced gargoyles. One of the gargoyles looked a bit dyspeptic, leaning at an angle on a recently chipped base. A traffic mirror hung from the ceiling to give a view of the alcove from the cash desk.
I kept on my feet and toyed with some of the books and knick-knacks on the shelves in the alcove. I needed information, but now that I was here, I wasn't sure how to start—especially in light of Solis's desire to interview the staff without their having prior knowledge of Mark's death. It would have been easier to ask someone I didn't know or like about someone I'd never met.
Behind me the steam valve on the espresso machine roared. In a minute, Phoebe nudged me and handed me a large cup of coffee. "Sit down and drink that. You're all cold and fidgety." I let her push me toward one of the scruffy armchairs near the cardboard hearth and sipped the drink.
"Hey… what is this?" I asked, looking up. The hot drink was much richer than I was used to.
"That's a breve—like a latte with cream instead of milk. And don't you make that face at me," Phoebe added, flipping her hand. "You need a little padding on those bones of yours. You look like a bundle of brooms."
"You've been hanging out at your dad's place, haven't you?" I asked. Phoebe's restaurant-owning family chided me for being underweight every time I saw any of them, which was a refreshing change from my own mother's insistence that I was in danger of running to pudge at all times and must be ever-vigilant against rogue calories that might stick unbecomingly to my hips or thighs.
She laughed. "Hugh and Davy convinced Poppy to put an espresso machine in at the restaurant—though I say what's espresso got to do with Jamaican food? So I went up to show them how it works. They already got bored with steaming milk and so I said I'd show them some fancy drinks next time." «Them» came out sounding like «dem» — Phoebe had definitely been spending a lot of time with the older members of the family. She gave me a toothy leer. "You're my guinea pig. So drink up, cavy."
I gave a good-natured shake of the head. "Squee squee," I said.
While I tried to sneak up on the hot cream and coffee, Phoebe made her own drink and joined me in the comfy chairs. "So," she started, "what did you want to ask me about?"
I looked away as I put down my cup. "Mark."
Phoebe sighed. "That boy is bad luck lately. Whenever he's around, things get broken, books fall off the shelves, the power goes out— you'd think we'd angered a duppy."
"What's a duppy?"
"In Jamaica that's what we call a bad ghost—or what Poppy calls it—I can hardly remember the place now, but I remember Poppy telling me how the duppies'd get me if I threw dishwater out the window without calling out first. Or how he said I shouldn't throw rocks at night or sit in the doorway, 'cause the duppies'd come over and smack me."
"Why would they do that?"
Phoebe scowled. "They're just evil old things. They got no heart to tell them right from wrong, so they just get mean and spiteful." She stopped and laughed. "But that's just old wives' tales. You asked me about Mark, didn't you? And why d'you want to talk about Mark, anyway? You finally giving up on that boyfriend who's never around?"
I shook my head with a moment's stifled pang. "Phoebe, I'm not man-shopping. I'm working. Mark was part of a research project at PNU that's got some problems, so I'm looking into the participants to see who might be causing the trouble."
"You think it's Mark?"
"No, but I have to know more about him. Seeing someone a few times a month doesn't mean you know him."
Phoebe snorted. "That's what I've been saying about that man of yours."
I turned a quelling look on her. "Phoebe."
"All right, all right. What d'you want to know?"
"How long had he worked here? What was he like? What did you know about his life outside of the shop?" I caught myself using the past tense and was relieved Phoebe didn't seem to notice.
"I think Mark's been working for me for… about three years. Always been reliable, though he's a big flirt and a joker. He's always making people laugh or playing pranks on them, but people like it— he's not mean about it. He's a nice g
uy. He's good with the stock and the customers, smart, reads a lot, of course—you know I don't take on people who don't love to read. Everybody likes him, women especially— those big, dark eyes and that wild hair look kind of Byronic or something. Heck, men probably like that, too, but he isn't interested, not so I ever noticed."
"Does he have a girlfriend?"
"Not right now. He was going out with Manda for a while, but that cooled off. Good thing, too—I don't like workplace romances. He doesn't seem to have another girl lately—too busy, I guess."
"What was he doing—aside from working here?"
"I think he's trying to get some kind of apprenticeship or something."
"For what sort of work?"
"Oh, he got his degree in theater lighting and set design last year. I think he wanted to work with the opera, but they weren't looking for a junior designer, so he's looking for smaller stuff. I think he wants to stay on the coast, but the only offers he's been getting are in the Midwest or back east."
"And what's been going on recently? You said he was bad luck."
Phoebe laughed. "I don't mean it. About a month ago the shop was being vandalized—just petty stuff, things thrown around, messes in the stockroom and office, alarm going off, stupid electrical problems. Then we had the poltergeist."
"What?" I started.
"I don't know what else to call it. And you know I'm not all spooky and like that, but what else you gonna call it when books go flying around the room with no people holding them and things moving around and turning up places they shouldn't be? And the cats hiding under the furniture." She waved her hands around. "You see any cats out here?"
I looked around and up into the mirror. "I see Mobius on the cash desk."
"Moby's just a stomach with legs who thinks he can get a piece of Manda's sandwich if he looks at her long enough. It never worked before, but he still thinks it will someday. That cat's brain-damaged. But what I'm telling you is the cats hide whenever Mark is in the shop. They're just now coming out after his shift."
"The cats don't like Mark?"
"Hell, no, girl. They used to love Mark. They're scared of the things that happen when he's around, these days—they may be animals, but they're not stupid. Mark comes in, things get kind of weird—like poor stupid Moby got his tail under a volume of the Oxford English Dictionary last week and that dinosaur head come right off the wall during happy hour once." She pointed up at a three-quarter-scale reproduction of a tyrannosaur skull that presided over the espresso bar. "I tell you, this has got to end, or I may have to let Mark go."
I looked down into my cup and discovered I'd finished the drink. "So Mark worked today?"
"Yeah. He's splitting a shift today. He had a half-shift to open and he'll be back for the late-night shift at ten."
"What time did he leave?"
"Noon. Came in at eight. He has some class or something on Wednesdays—oh, that's the project you're working for, right?"
"Yeah, they have a regular meeting on Wednesdays."
"Well, now I know."
"Phoebe… who's working with Mark tonight?"
"Just me. Wednesdays aren't too busy—sell more coffee than books."
"What do you do if someone doesn't show up?"
"Just work through it."
"What about the minions?"
"I usually cover for missing minions and then I chew them out later." She narrowed her eyes at me. "Why?"
"You might want to have someone stay late, in case Mark doesn't show."
"And why wouldn't he come to work?"
"Just a feeling. Things didn't go well at the project today."
Phoebe gave me a speculative look.
"I'm just suggesting." I stood up. "Phoebe, I know I'm going to have more questions, but I can't think of them right now."
"You aren't the only one with questions, Harper. I'll want an explanation if Mark doesn't show up."
I glanced away. "You'll get one."
I collected my jacket and left the shop. It was now a quarter of eight and still raining.
I walked a block in the rain to the statue of Lenin and used the pay phone on the side of the building behind him. The zigzag metal awning of a shop called Deluxe Junk kept me from getting soaked as I called Tuckman.
"Dr. Tuckman, Harper Blaine. Have you received any information about Mark Lupoldi yet?"
"No. Why? Didn't you speak to him?"
"He wasn't available." Chances were good Solis was still looking for next of kin to notify and wouldn't catch up to Tuckman for a while, so I'd keep my knowledge to myself for now. "Look, Dr. Tuckman, I'm not sure that what you're getting is normal activity you can—"
He cut me off. "There is nothing normal about what happened this afternoon. That table was not acting 'normally.'"
"What's normal about a table running around the room and climbing the walls?"
"Exactly. Exactly," he emphasized. "It shouldn't have that much energy."
"I understand that, but what I meant is that I think there's a bit more going on here than someone faking phenomena."
"What are you suggesting? That there's a real ghost?" He scoffed. "Before I'd consider that, you'd have to prove it couldn't be anything else—which you won't be able to do. Don't go chasing ghosts, Ms. Blaine. All I require is that you take the usual steps and follow the usual protocols, nothing more. Leave the ghost stories to my subjects. And when you catch up to Mark, make sure he knows I need to speak to him."
I could feel myself frowning and was glad of the darkness that concealed my sour expression from passersby "If I catch up to Mr. Lupoldi, I'll be sure to let him know," I replied. And I hoped I wouldn't ever see him again. I'd had as much contact with his shock and pain as I wanted. I didn't know what the medical examiner would find, but whatever had caused Mark's death had surprised him as much as anyone and left some freakish traces—or a lack of them.
"Good. I'll be very upset with Mr. Lupoldi if he doesn't show up on Sunday," Tuckman continued. "The group may waver if he misses two sessions in a row." Then he hung up on me.
I doubted the group would have much enthusiasm for Sunday's séance once they learned Mark was dead, but that revelation would have to wait on Solis. While I was convinced they could go further unaided than Tuckman believed they could, I wasn't sure they could go far enough to harm someone. The table had been damned frisky. What else could they do? And, as Tuckman had put it, how far would they go?
I hoped I wouldn't have to convince Tuckman of the existence of things that go bump in the night. If it was more than a physical saboteur, I'd have to exhaust all the prosaic options before there was any chance Tuckman would agree that his phenomena were real, and he would resist that to the end. I'd have to know how it all worked and who might have the motive as well as the ability—or not—before I could prove to him it wasn't faked. There were days my life would have been easier if more people believed in ghosts.
I had a strange feeling about this case. I still didn't think Tuckman was being straight with me and that pissed me off. And I didn't like what had happened to Mark. I tried not to make assumptions, but Solis was just as bothered as I was, and though Mark's death wasn't my case, it didn't seem entirely unconnected.
I stuffed down my misgivings and paged Quinton. I waited for him to call me back, listening to the rain play music on the metal awning. When he called, I arranged to pick up the ferret on my way home, then headed back to my truck.
About eleven o'clock, I was stretched out on my sofa at home with Chaos snoozing in the crook of my arm while I pretended to care what was on TV. The phone rang, interrupting a commercial that featured dancing clams. I smiled, remembering Phoebe's jibe about my absent paramour, and picked up the phone.
"Hello," I said.
"Hello, Harper." The warmth in his voice was almost a caress, speeding my breath and raising heat beneath my skin all the way from England.
"Good morning, Mr. Novak."
"Should I say 'Good evening, Miss
Blaine'?"
"Do you want to sound like a Cary Grant movie?"
"Only if it's one of the films where he gets the girl."
"Wasn't that most of them?"
"Probably. He even got the girl in Suspicion, though he wasn't supposed to."
"Yeah, I know," I said. "I read the book."
"So… which ending do you prefer?"
"I'd have liked to see the book ending. Even charming, handsome guys can be coldhearted killers—but that's probably my cynical occupation talking."
"How is your cynical occupation at the moment?"
There was a slight chill in his sigh and my rush of happiness crashed. I frowned and was glad phones didn't have video feed. I sometimes thought his absence kept our on-again, off-again relationship from foundering completely on the rocks of my occulted life, but even fondness-engendering distance didn't seem to be working now. "Nothing special," I answered, "though I ran into Detective Solis today."
"I remember him. I recall he's pretty fierce for a quiet guy."
"I wouldn't care to be on his bad side."
"I hope nothing you're doing is tangled up with any of his cases."
"No," I lied. I did not want to talk about Solis or my job. "How's Sotheby's?"
"I'm almost at the end of this contract."
He fell silent. I waited.
"An independent valuation firm is chatting me up, though. It's mostly insurance work, but it's interesting, and I guess I'm getting a bit of a reputation in the right circles."
Another stumbling silence. "So, are you thinking of taking the offer if they make one?" I asked.
"Maybe. I'd still have to come home for a while to satisfy the alien worker requirements. But I could be home for Christmas. I wouldn't want to disrupt Michael's school schedule here, but we could work it out." Michael was Will's much-younger brother, still in school, though studying for British college exams now—when he wasn't cutting class to work on vintage motorcycles. "I could always look for something in the US…"
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