Death of The Old Man

by Karl Tutt

She got up and went to the door. She checked the sandals as she closed it behind me. The sound of a deadbolt snapped at me. I stopped at the street and looked again at the shabby house. I hoped it did not become a sepulcher

  Chapter 7

  I hadn’t talked to Frank. I felt guilty. I probably shouldn’t have started without consulting him first. I didn’t want to hear one of his lectures about leaving ‘police business to the police.’ Nevertheless I detoured to the station on the chance I might catch him in. He was sitting at his desk with piles of paperwork.

  “Hello, my friend. What brings you to the humble office of an overworked, underpaid public servant?” I think he was relieved to have a break from the musty stacks. It was the look of the condemned when the hangman has called in sick.

  “It’s the old man.”

  “Come on, T.K. No signs of foul play. Some odd circumstances, I’ll admit. But the guy was old and he is dead. Dr. Li finally wrote it off to natural causes. Give it a rest.”

  “So what about the missing liver?”

  “Believe me. Stranger things have happened in Key West.”

  I didn’t doubt that.

  “I found out who he was.”

  “So what? We did, too. One Alain Toussaint, 68 years old, wife Hallemina, young and distraught. Iron clad alibi. Like I said, ‘Natural causes’.”

  I was getting nowhere.

  “At least look through the case files on line. See if there are any similars.”

  “Yeah, T.K. When I clear this mountain of shit off my desk, I’ll have my people call your people and we’ll do lunch. Maybe there’s a movie contract in it.”

  His mood was getting darker. Time to exit. I tried to grin. I told him I knew they were right about the ‘natural causes’. It was what he wanted to hear. I’d let it go.

  But I didn’t. I couldn’t get the sound of the whimpering or the face chiseled in fear out of my mind. A voice inside of me screamed, “No more dead children.”

  I wasn’t sure what to do with the rest of the afternoon. I needed to talk to someone who would listen. Sunny was working. I knew Fritz would be whizzing away at the computer. Chris was now fulltime at West Marine. So I walked. I watched some tourists hang on the buoy that marks the most southern point in the United States. They laughed and mugged and took shots with their cell phones. I was glad I didn’t have any stock in Kodak. Then it was back uptown to Duval.

  I heard a familiar voice coming out of Sloppy Joe’s. It was my buddy Island Jake. When he saw me at the bar, he launched into John Prine’s “Angel from Montgomery.” Bonnie Raitt does the version I love the best, but Jake caught the mournful hopelessness of the lyric and punctuated it with simple elegance on his Martin 12-string. It was just right for the mood I was in. I went to the stage and dropped a five into the tip jar. He smiled and nodded thanks.

  Somehow the beer tasted stale and bitter. The old man was dead. Hallemina, the child bride, was terrified. The things she feared were way beyond any knowledge or experience I could summon. I was mystified and fascinated by the talk of unknown poisons, Jumbies, Douens, and so-called Twins. I had talked to the Reverend, read everything I could find online about Obeah. If I could find one of the faithful who would talk, I might be able to fill some holes, maybe even gain some insight into a mystery that was darker and deeper day by day.

  I stepped back into the heat. The sun beat down like a sledge hammer, but there was a light breeze with a hint of fall in it. I ran through the rolodex in my mind searching for a name that might produce some information. Obeah, poisons, evil spirits, Trinidad, Tobago. Suddenly it hit me. Maleeva St. Michel, Tracy’s Girl Friday at The Strip Search was from Trinidad. I was only a few blocks from there. Sure, it was a long shot, but it was the only ammo I had at the moment.

  The electronic tone trilled as I opened the door. A couple of creeps who valued their anonymity scrambled back into shelves filled with the best smut money could buy. Maleeva was standing behind the counter, an open VOGUE with a photo of one of the fashion sirens in a ‘little black dress’ that shouted sex and style.

  She looked up as I approached. A faded floor length gray shift covered curves that might have incited a riot in a place like this. She wore no makeup, but her attempt to appear drab couldn’t hide the natural beauty. She smiled, perfect white teeth framed by ebony skin and those glowing anthracite eyes.

  “Hello T.K. Tracy is out at the moment. Should be back around two.”

  “Actually, I came by to see you.”

  She looked surprised, but smiled and put her hand to her heart in mock excitement.

  “Oh, Doctor, how you do go on,” she said and laughed.

  I told her I had become interested in Obeah and was looking for someone who had been near its heart and practice.

  “In fact,” she said, “I am a bit of a history buff. I take the sufferings of my people very seriously.”

  “Do you leave when Tracy comes in?” She nodded. “So how about a late lunch? 2:30 at the Raw Bar?”

  “I’ll be there,” she said and smiled.

  I left and headed to the boat. I checked my shave, slipped into a clean T-shirt and dolloped on an extra dose of deodorant. I left about 1:30 to visit my second favorite bar tender, Louis Moulet. I had been drooling for one of his special Double Trouble Rum Runners. I prepared for my eyes to water and my tongue to go numb. Louis, the English major with perfect diction, was doing his usual island shtick. Lots of deys, dose and dats combined with the ‘Don’t worry, Be happy’ smile he kept plastered on his face. The tourists loved it and the tips were rolling in.

  “So what you been up to, T.K.? Catching any ghosts?” I gave a reluctant, but obligatory chuckle.

  “I’m having lunch with a beautiful lady.”

  “So Sunny is off?”

  “No, another beautiful lady.” He rolled his eyes and looked genuinely concerned.

  Just then Maleeva strutted through the door. This was definitely the new, improved model. She wore a jungle print of green and black cut just above the knees. It clung to her like a child clings to a fresh ice cream cone. The neckline plunged off a cliff and the cleavage was ample, to say the least. Between her breasts was a gleaming peace sign hung from a gold chain. It swayed back and forth as if to say, ‘Check it out, boys. You ain’t seen nothin yet’.

  Black heels made her appear three inches taller, slim and stately. Her eyelids were painted with a green eye shadow that matched the dress. A bit of mascara and the perfect curl for the eyelashes. A light blush on the high cheekbones and lipstick the color of ripe raspberries. The nails and toenails matched. Various golden bangles hung from her wrists and rings circled every finger.

  Louis took a deep breath and whistled quietly.

  “I know dat one. You be careful. She have de power over de men. Dey lay on the railroad tracks for her. Make you pay the devil.”

  I laughed, but he didn’t.

  “Yeah, well that’s my lunch date.” He shook his head and said something I couldn’t hear.

  We took a table at the window. The boats in the harbor rocked gently and the sun shimmered like silver dollars off the water. When our server came, we decided it was late for a heavy lunch. I already had a slight buzz, but I ordered another Double Trouble while Maleeva opted for Chardonnay.

  “You mentioned you were a history buff.”

  “Yes. I am fascinated with the trials of my people. Their abduction from Africa. The horrible indignities they suffered aboard the ships of the slave traders. The ways they sought to cope and to simply survive when they arrived on these tiny islands.”

  “I have some knowledge of that through my reading and teaching. It was injustice at its worst.”

  “Yes, it was. Things are better, but this malignancy has never been properly addressed. I wanted to be a doctor of medicine. My parents did the best they could, but my color and my caste were things I could not overcome. So now I dress like a pauper for protection and sell videos of things animals do not d
o.”

  She sounded bitter, but then she smiled. “Make no mistake. Tracy has been good to me. She is my blood sister. I would give my life for her.”

  “So what about Obeah?”

  She cringed and lifted the glass to her lips. Then she spoke. “An old thing, sometimes good, sometimes evil. It began in West Africa and migrated on the slave ships. It promised deliverance to some and an eternal hell to others. The slave masters feared it because they did not understand. It united the people and that was unacceptable. After Tacky’s War, a slave revolt in Jamaica in 1760, it was outlawed. An Obeah man was thought to have given advice to the rebels. Its open practice brought arrest and prosecution. That is still the law there, though it is seldom enforced. Mostly Obeah is for the primitive and the ignorant. I suppose it gives them comfort. But who these days believes in spells, incantations and Jumbies with no feet?”

  “Apparently there are those who do. Do you know of the death of the old man on the road?”

  “Yes. I heard you speak of it at the Roundtable. Certainly an odd situation, but one, I’m sure that can be explained through logical means.” She looked assured.

  “The police say the old man died of natural causes. I met his wife, Hallemina. She believes he was possessed, that some demon ‘stole his shadow’. She thinks the Jumbie will come for her. She had set her shoes on the porch and was tying endless knots. I know about the shoes. ”

  “And the knots? Another foolish superstition. The Obeah believe that Jumbies love to untie knots. If you hang them near the door, the Jumbie will untie the knots before entering the house. If there are enough of them, he will forget why he is there and leave. Silly superstition. But enough foolishness. I know this unfortunate child. I have seen her in the Village. She has little education and she has been much abused. Her parents should be flogged for abandoning a daughter so young to one so old. I know those who might comfort her. I will seek them.”

  “She spoke of the Twins. What do you know of these Twins?”

  She shifted in her chair and took a delicate sip of the Chardonnay. I could see the ring of lipstick on the glass as she placed it on the table. She looked down and shook her head.

  “I have heard little and know less. The Obeah believe that their shaman can work in the light or darkness. I can only guess that this is where a reference to Twins might appear. To be fair, perhaps the child is delusional. You said she was frightened.”

  She glanced at her Gucci watch.

  “You must forgive me T.K., but I have an engagement this afternoon. I will soon be late. ”

  “Thank you Maleeva, It’s been a pleasure. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Actually she hadn’t. There was little new information in any of the conversation. I felt she could have said more, but I suspected it would have been just more of the same. At least I had confirmed some things I thought I already knew and I’d had the pleasure of a beautiful and charming woman across the table from me. Not a bad afternoon at that.

  Chapter 8

  I got back to KAMALA just in time to catch Frank’s call.

  ”Okay T.K. I was finally able to clear some of the shit off my desk. I hit the computer. Nothing obvious, but one case strikes my fancy. Six months ago. Husband dead, looked like a heart attack, but he was only 46 and no previous history of heart problems. Nothing particularly strange in that, but when the forensics people arrived, he was on the floor in the bathroom. On the mirror someone, apparently the stiff had written “stole my shadow” in red lipstick. We interviewed the wife, no flags there. Dr. Li examined the body. His first impression was poison, but there were no traces of anything in the blood. The cause of death was noted as cardiac arrest. No formal autopsy. She claimed the body and had it cremated immediately.”

  “Seems like a lot of coincidences,” I said.

  “Maybe, maybe not. The thing that caught my eye was the ‘stole my shadow’ shit. I can’t see any reason to reopen the case. Plus I go no body, no witnesses, no physical evidence and I don’t even know whether the wife is still around. Feeding your wild imagination scares the hell out of me, but I thought you would want to know.”

  I laughed a little, but only a little. “So do you have an address for the wife?”

  “Somehow I knew you’d ask me that question. Yes.”

  He gave me her name, telephone number, and an address a couple of blocks off Duval.

  “And Frank, do you mind if I talk to Dr. Li?”

  He picked up the phone and punched in four numbers; then he handed it to me. It rang only once.

  “Dr. Li, T.K. Fleming. Frank has just told me of a case six months ago where a woman’s husband had apparently died on the bathroom floor of a heart attack. He said you first suspected poison.”

  “I did. But the blood revealed no traces of anything strange. There was one thing. A substance bearing close resemblance to common gunpowder. It made no sense and there was not enough to be toxic. I dismissed it as an oddity, circumstance, possibly slight contamination in the testing. Forensic science is not infallible and the wife was anxious to claim the body. We released it to her for cremation.”

  “So there was no complete autopsy?”

  “I could see no need. The cause of death was very obvious.”

  I thanked the good doctor and told him I owed him a beer sometime. He laughed. “I’ll take you up on that,” he said and hung up.

  Okay Mr. Ghostcatcher,” Frank said, “go do your thing and leave me alone with my criminals. Let me know if you hear anything worth telling.”

  It was still early and Sunny was working. I tried the wife’s number, but got a recording saying it was no longer in service. I mounted my ten-speed and headed toward town. It was a dead end. I knocked on the door, but the house was empty and barren. Patches of grass a foot high and shrubs sadly neglected. Nothing that wasn’t just barely alive.

  A lady in a loose house dress was tipping a green bucket, watering plants on the porch next door. I walked over. She turned away. I got the impression she was trying to pretend I didn’t exist.

  “Excuse me. I am inquiring about the couple that lived next door.”

  “I already talk to police. I know nothing.”

  “I’m not a policeman, just an interested individual trying to help a friend.”

  “Dere is no help here. De wife move. I don’t know where. De husband dead. Dey got him.”

  “Who got him?”

  “You are white man. No believe, no understand. You go away. Watch de T.V. No bother me. I got work to do.”

  I waited for a moment. She poured some water into a pot running over with fresh basil and went into the house. The door slammed with a loud clap.

  Why had she been so hostile? What wouldn’t a “white man” understand? I had no answers and I didn’t expect to get any from her. The sun hammered me as I stood in the yard wondering what was next.

  As I walked, the sweat began to soak my shirt. I wiped my forehead with a paper towel I had stuffed in my pocket. Then it hit me. If the Obeah were skilled in the art of poison . . . if it had been a slow death, perhaps Alain Toussaint had experienced some intestinal problems before his passing. If anyone knew, it would be Hallemina. I decided to pay an unscheduled visit.

  I propped my bike up against a withered post that had once held a mailbox. The house looked every bit as dismal as it had before, but there were no shoes on the front porch, no knotted cords hanging from the doorknob. Instead a large sheet of plywood had been nailed over the door. A large peace sign had been spray painted in black from one side to the other, but it was marred with a blood red cross running through its center. I stared at it for a minute, then went to the windows, wondering if there was any sign of life. They were dusty and gray in the front and the back. I thought of Hallemina’s declaration that the child had been buried deep where the “creatures” couldn’t get to him. What kind of ‘creature’ had she feared? There was one barren spot in the corner of the back yard. A small mound of dry dirt. I hoped t
he child’s body was interred very, very deep.

  It was hard to believe I had been inside talking to a living, breathing woman just the day before. I tried to imagine her with her mother in Trinidad, the fear gone from her face. Safe, like she’d said.

  Chapter 9

  I went back to the boat and poured myself a generous dollop of Jameson. The rich Irish whiskey felt good in my mouth, but the other taste wasn’t quite so satisfying. What did I have now? Nothing. No hard information. A series of questions with no answers. Frank was right. I needed to let it go. Ghostcatcher? Nothing but a bad joke and the joke was on me. I felt ridiculous. Durant and all of his talk of my aura and my ‘mission’ to fight evil. Sunny and her description of my abnormal powers of observation, her admonition to be what I was destined to be. An ageing knight errant? More the silly old fool aspiring to be some sort of savior. Even the fine Irish whiskey couldn’t make it go away. I decided to take a walk.

  The sun was setting on Malory Square. Even with the massive cruise ships that had tainted the orange panorama, it was a scene of rare energy and splendor. The Cat Man was coaxing his felines through the flaming hoops. Various human statues dotted the landscape, shining in their silver and gold body paint waiting for the unsuspecting tourist to look away for a moment so they could shock them with the slightest movement. The jugglers and street musicians were out in full force, their cases open to collect the coins and the bills that signaled approval and appreciation. Island Jake had taken the night off, or perhaps he was wooing the early crowd at Hog’s Breath, Rum Runners or one of the other watering holes that featured live performers during cocktail hour.

  The darkness came and the crowd began to thin out. The Cat Man caged his felines and stored his hoops for another day. The sound of guitars and banjos began to fade and cases snapped shut. The statues seemed to disappear in the night and a modicum of peace returned to the dock. I turned to one of the side streets to walk a bit more and let my mind do its own twisted tricks.

  I didn’t even hear them come up behind me. Just the iron lock of large hands on my forearms.

  I barely made out the words, “for your own good”, before I felt the cotton cloth and inhaled the noxious smell. I was conscious, but I was a rag doll being dragged to God knew where. The last thing I remember was that somehow the voice was familiar.