The Showstone

by Glenn Cooper

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t around for the funeral.’

  ‘Seen one, seen ’em all.’

  ‘Catholic affairs, I’d have to agree. I’ve not been to all that many Jewish ones.’

  ‘There’s a lot less drinking.’

  ‘So I’ve observed but I expect you wore some of your Irish.’

  ‘I tried to do the Donovans proud. Even switched to Jameson’s that night.’

  ‘Jessica filled me in.’

  ‘She was an extraordinarily good egg,’ Cal said. ‘I don’t like depending on people—’

  ‘One of your few flaws,’ the priest interrupted.

  Cal guffawed. ‘But I don’t know what I would have done without her.’

  ‘I’d urge you to hold that thought for the next time you’re about to do something unfortunate concerning our dear friend.’

  ‘Christ, Joe, you know me too damn well.’

  ‘Jessica tells me the police haven’t found the killer.’

  ‘No killer, no motive. It’s maddening.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. So, tell your parish priest, how’re you really doing?’

  ‘I’m hanging in there.’

  ‘Well, you look sad, which is understandable, but you also look pale and listless, which is not.’

  ‘Like I said, hanging in there.’ He seemed keen to change the subject. ‘How’s your mother?’

  ‘Fast with a cup of tea, slow with most everything else. Tell me, Cal, what in God’s name are you going to do with all your mom’s stuff? Look at all of it!’

  ‘Three of every four boxes are books. Mostly my father’s but she had a pretty good collection too. I’m going to have to convert a spare bedroom and build a second library.’

  ‘Can’t have too many books, right?’

  ‘Truer words …’

  Murphy casually volunteered to help lug the boxes of books up to the sacrificial guest bedroom. He didn’t have to offer twice; Cal immediately pressed him into service. The young priest rolled up his sleeves and the two of them labored for the better part of an hour, then sat in the much-improved living room sharing a couple of cold beers. The room was now uncluttered enough for Murphy to notice something on an end table that had been obscured by a tower of book boxes.

  ‘Now what is that?’

  He got up to have a better look.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Cal said, ‘you can pick it up.’

  Murphy carefully plucked the black obsidian disk from the old padded envelope on which it had been resting. Cal noticed a flicker of an odd look cross his face.

  ‘All right. I’m stumped,’ Murphy said.

  ‘I can’t tell you what it is, but I’ll tell you what I know,’ Cal said. ‘It was in the back of my mother’s closet in a shoebox. Jessica found it doing triage on her shoes.’

  ‘Now there’s a woman who knows her footwear,’ Murphy said. ‘The two most prevalent items in Jessica’s apartment, as you well know, are bottles of wine and pairs of shoes.’

  ‘You’ve been in her closet?’

  ‘She gave me the tour, yes. It’s approximately the size of my flat. She’s quite proud of it, not in a boastful way, mind you, more in a sweet way. So, this little beauty was in a shoebox.’

  ‘In that envelope, sandwiched between a couple of my father’s monographs. The writing is his. He mailed it from Iraq. It’s a little bit chilling. It’s postmarked the day before he died. For all I know it’s one of the last things he wrote.’

  ‘Lovely bit of calligraphy.’

  ‘That was his everyday handwriting. He was old-school.’

  ‘He was on a dig when he died, I recall you telling me.’

  ‘He was north of Mosul at the Rabban Hurmizd Monastery founded by the Chaldean Catholics in the seventh century. As far as I know he was excavating an eleventh-century scriptorium when he died in 1989.’

  ‘You think this came from there?’

  ‘I’d have a hard time believing that. He wouldn’t have stolen an artifact from a dig. It wasn’t like him. It wouldn’t be something that any professional archeologist would do. It’s more likely that he found it for sale in some bazaar.’

  ‘Is it old?’

  ‘All I can say is that I don’t think it’s modern. Oh, there was a card with it inside the envelope.’

  Murphy found it, lettered in the same calligraphy. ‘John Dee?’ he said. ‘The John Dee, you think?’

  ‘I mean, probably, but I can’t be certain.’

  ‘He was Queen Elizabeth’s alchemist, right?’

  ‘And her astrologer.’

  ‘What, pray tell, is scrying?’

  ‘I only did a quick look-up. It’s gazing into reflective surfaces like polished stones or pools of water to see spiritual visions.’

  ‘So, your father thought it might be intended for magic and the like.’

  Cal shrugged. ‘Maybe. It’s a mystery.’

  ‘Well, how curious are you?’

  ‘Scale of one to ten? Maybe a five or six.’

  ‘Well, that’s good enough.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To get you off your duff into some wholesome sunshine. I happen to know a fellow who might know something about this stone of yours. Right up his alley. Come on, let’s take a walk.’

  The bookstore was at the edge of Harvard Square on Brattle Street, in the basement of an apartment building. Cal must have passed the Orb and the Serpent a thousand times over the years but to the best of his recollection he had only been inside once and that was when he was an undergraduate. Standing in front of the Celtic-style signage and a mandala decal on the door, he flashed back to the early 1990s and a small, dark room that reeked of incense where some type of breathy pan-pipes music was looping on a tape. He would have been in an altered state, he imagined, in a haze of booze, weed, or both.

  ‘You know the owner?’ Cal asked Murphy outside the premises.

  ‘Jeremy Mulligan’s his name. I wandered in a couple of years ago for no other reason than here’s a bookseller in the Square I hadn’t visited. Mind you the occult isn’t really my thing, but it turns out that Jeremy’s also from County Galway and we bonded. We see each other from time to time. If he’s not the man with answers he’ll likely have some ideas on where you might go for more information.’

  Mulligan came from the back room alerted to their presence by the tinkling of a brass bell the opening door swatted. As soon as Cal caught sight of him he was sure he was the same guy he’d seen at the store all those years ago. Here was the same thin face made long by an unforgettable fleshy chin that hung like a nut sack, the same hippie hair tied back into a pony-tail that was, in his mind’s eye, jet black and was now cotton-wool white. And for all Cal knew he was wearing the same tie-dyed shirt.

  Mulligan grinned at Murphy and pointed at Cal and said in an accent flattened by decades away from the old country, ‘Are you a rabbi?’

  ‘Am I a rabbi?’ Cal repeated, befuddled. Burning sandalwood oil tickled his nostrils.

  ‘That’s right. Are you?’

  ‘As it happens, no.’

  ‘Pity,’ Mulligan said. ‘I always wanted to say, a priest and a rabbi walked into a bookshop.’

  ‘And what would the punchline have been?’ Cal asked.

  ‘Haven’t gotten that far, friend. Something will come to mind if the situation presents itself.’

  The two Irishmen exchanged greetings while Cal had a look around the store. There were cases of paperbacks covering the full gamut of occult magic and mythological topics, small tables crammed with Hindu and Vedic figurines, incense sticks and burners, candles, Tarot cards, and by the counter, a couple of racks of posters of colorful occult symbology.

  Murphy steered the conversation to the purpose of the visit. ‘Jeremy, my friend here, Professor Donovan, has something we’d like you to take a look at to see if you can shed some light.’

  ‘Donovan, eh?’ Mulligan said. ‘Your people from Limerick, Cork, or Kilkenny?’

  ‘Limerick.’
/>
  ‘Ah, the way-back Donovans.’

  ‘You know your genealogy.’

  ‘I possess a plethora of non-marketable skills. Show me your mystery object, Donovan of Limerick.’

  Cal had the washcloth-wrapped obsidian in a messenger bag. He placed it on the counter next to the cash register and did a reveal.

  Mulligan’s eyes widened. ‘She’s a beauty. May I?’ On Cal’s nod, he took it into his outstretched palm. ‘Hello, darling, where’ve you come from?’

  ‘Iraq,’ Cal said.

  ‘She can speak for herself, you know,’ Mulligan said.

  Murphy looked bemused. ‘How do you know it’s a she?’

  ‘Well now, Father, to me, all lovely things are a she.’

  ‘Why do you say it – she – can talk for herself?’ Cal asked.

  ‘Because that’s what she’s made for. Now I’ll need some quiet.’ Mulligan turned the volume knob on his sound system to zero and stared into the reflective surface. After a full minute of contemplation he shook his head and said, ‘For a fellow who traffics in the magical arts, I’ve really got no special abilities, none at all. It’s always made me rather sad. Did either of you notice anything when you held this black beauty in your mitt?’

  Every time Cal picked it up there was always the faintest of murmuring, impossible to place. But he kept quiet and shook his head.

  ‘Well, some folks have it, most don’t. I’m not saying you can’t get anything from her if you’re lacking in these abilities, but she’s intended for those that do.’

  Cal was getting restless. ‘I’m sorry, but you haven’t said what it is.’

  ‘She’s a showstone. At least that’s what I reckon.’

  ‘Is that the same as a scrying stone?’ Cal asked.

  ‘One and the same. If you knew what it was, Donovan of Limerick, why’d you come in saying you didn’t?’

  Murphy knew Cal well enough to see from his reddening ears that he was about to get short with the aging hippie. He intervened by telling Mulligan that the obsidian arrived with some morsels of information, but they needed an expert’s help to flesh them out.

  ‘Right,’ Mulligan said, placing the obsidian back onto the counter. ‘These beasties are known by a number of names – showstones, shew-stones – the Elizabethan spelling (with an E-W), Aztec mirrors for the obsidian kind, scrying mirrors. They’re all for the same thing. Conversing with spirits. Ever hear of a chappie named John Dee?’

  ‘We have indeed,’ Murphy said.

  ‘Then you might know that Dee was the father of a school of magic that’s come to be called Enochian. It’s not a well-known form of magic, and it never had much of a following, owing to the fact that it requires considerable study and scholarship to become proficient. Dee was something of a genius. He worked out all the particulars of scrying and communication with the great beyond. Mind you, he wasn’t a scryer himself. He didn’t have the gift, you see. He relied on a number of gentlemen to do the scrying on his behalf. A curious fellow named Edward Kelley was his main man.’

  ‘They were mediums?’ Cal asked.

  ‘Something like that. They used shiny objects in their work like crystals, vessels of water, polished stones like the black beauty here. Dee somehow got his hands on an obsidian mirror. He called it his Aztec mirror, but who’s to say where it came from? You can find obsidian rock all over the world. By all accounts, it was his favorite instrument. It’s sitting in the British Museum, actually, with some other of his mystical gear.’

  Cal smiled. His father had gotten it right.

  ‘There’s pictures of it you can find online,’ Mulligan added. ‘And now it’s time for me to monetize your visit, gentleman. I’ve got a couple of books on Enochian magic I will sell you for the price marked on their covers, not a penny more, not a penny less. I’ll fetch them for you.’

  Cal bought both, Enochian Vision Magic – A Beginner’s Guide, by Malcolm Ebersole, whose author photo showed an elderly, unsmiling British fellow in a tweed jacket, and the earlier, Enochian Magic – A Journey into the World of John Dee, by an Eve Riley, an attractive young woman with raven hair photographed seated on a stone wall before a desert backdrop.

  ‘Now that we’ve met, Donovan of Limerick,’ Mulligan said, handing Cal a paper bag, ‘don’t be a stranger. And as for you, Father Joe, try not to get too hot under that collar of yours.’

  The bell at the bookshop door rang again and Mulligan came out, swallowing the last bite of his ham sandwich.

  ‘Like Pavlov’s dog, here I come,’ he said to the bald, swarthy man whose size made the shop seem even smaller.

  Tariq Barzani didn’t seem to understand the comment. ‘You work here on your own?’ he asked, expressionless, in a sonorous Middle-Eastern accent.

  ‘Just the three of us – me, myself, and I. How can I help you?’

  ‘This is magic store, right?’

  ‘Magic, occult, astrology, mysticism, you name it.’

  ‘There was a man just here. What did he want?’

  ‘This is a book and curio shop, friend, not a spy on my customers shop. You look like you could maybe use something on Zen philosophy. Third shelf on your left.’

  ‘His name is Donovan. He had a leather bag. What was in it? Did he show you something?’

  Mulligan gave him a few tuts in reply and said, ‘Unless you’re a member of the constabulary, I’ll not be answering inappropriate questions. Now buy something or skedaddle.’

  Barzani bolted the door and flipped its sign to Closed. Over Mulligan’s protestations, he shuffled forward. He still had the massive legs of a powerlifter and his inner thighs scraped against one another.

  ‘Did he have a black mirror?’ he asked. ‘Did he have a showstone?’

  ‘All right, enough is enough. Leave or I’m calling the cops.’

  Barzani kept coming, slowly like a tank, but fast enough to yank the phone from Mulligan’s hand and force him into the back room.

  On Sunday morning, Cal was lounging on his sofa, sections of the New York Times tossed untidily onto the floor. His cellphone went off across the room. He groaned at it pleadingly, but it would not come to him, so he lifted himself up and saw it was Joe Murphy.

  ‘Hey, Joe, what’s up?’

  From the priest’s first breath, Cal could tell there was a problem.

  ‘Jesus, did you hear the news?’

  The doorbell rang. Cal saw through his front windows that a police cruiser was at the curb.

  ‘What news? What’s going on? The police are here.’

  ‘You go talk to them and call me back,’ Murphy said. ‘Jeremy Mulligan’s been killed.’

  The man at the door was a few years younger than Cal with thinning blond hair and a wispy mustache. He asked if this was Calvin Donovan’s house.

  ‘That’s me.’

  The man reached into his tan sport coat and pulled out a badge wallet. ‘I’m Detective Gilroy, Cambridge Police. Could I come inside, Mr Donovan?’

  ‘Is this about Jeremy Mulligan?’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I just got a call from a friend. What happened?’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Of course. Sorry, the place is a bit of a mess. I inherited my mother’s things. She just passed away.’

  ‘My condolences.’

  Cal cleared off a chair for the detective and squared off with him on the sofa.

  ‘Mr Mulligan was found this morning at his store on Brattle Street. He was the victim of an apparent violent crime. He never made it to an engagement with a friend in Somerville last night and this friend went looking for him this morning at his apartment in Medford and then at the bookstore. He had a spare key, made entry, and found Mulligan in his stock room.’

  Cal was shaking his head at the story. ‘How was he killed?’

  ‘We’re not divulging that at this time. The reason I’m here is that it appears that you were the last customer he had yesterday.’

  ‘I was the
re at midday with a friend, Joseph Murphy.’

  ‘I’ll need his particulars.’

  ‘Of course. You identified me from a security camera?’

  ‘The store didn’t have cameras. I found your credit card receipt.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The time stamp on your credit card transaction was 12:46. Sometime around two in the afternoon, a building resident noticed the shop was closed, which was unusual for a Saturday, but she figured he just knocked off early. What time did you and Mr Murphy leave?’

  ‘It was within a minute or two of making the purchase.’

  ‘A couple of books, I saw.’

  ‘That’s right.’ He pointed to the paper bag on the coffee table. ‘There they are.’

  ‘Go there frequently? Did you know the deceased?’

  ‘It was my first time in a very long while. It was really my first time meeting him. Joe Murphy knew him fairly well. They were both from the same place in Ireland and had that in common.’

  ‘How did Mr Mulligan seem to you? Any signs of stress?’

  ‘Not at all. He was relaxed and joking around.’

  ‘Was anyone else in the store?’

  ‘Not in the front room at least.’

  ‘Could anyone have been in the storeroom at the rear?’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything, but I couldn’t say for sure.’

  ‘And why specifically did you decide to go there yesterday?’

  ‘I inherited an artifact from my mother. Joe Murphy thought that Jeremy might know what it was?’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Actually, he did.’

  ‘Could I see it?’

  Cal told him he didn’t see why not and got the stone from the messenger bag. The detective looked at it, unimpressed.

  ‘And what did he say it was?’

  ‘It’s for talking to the spirit world.’

  The detective deadpanned, ‘Maybe I could borrow it sometime as an investigative tool. So, nothing was out of the ordinary?’

  ‘I didn’t notice anything unusual.’

  ‘And what is it you do, Mr Donovan?’

  ‘I’m a professor here at Harvard.’

  Out of the blue, Cal felt himself tearing up.