He then said, “I see. Does the website also tell you how long the chemical remains in the contaminated ground?”
“Roughly for twenty years or so, I believe.”
“So any Chlordane so used just prior to the ban should still be evident in soil samples. Is that correct?”
“Well, it can dissipate through evaporation, so it would have to be a soil sample taken from an area not prone to exposure to any direct sunlight.”
“If I provide such a sample, can you have it analyzed for me?”
“I’d be happy to. Of course.”
“Thank you very much, Ms. Corwin.”
“If you’d like, you can call me Wanda.”
“Thank you, Wanda.”
“May I call you Lupa?”
“It’s my name. I answer to it.”
“Oh. Okay, goodbye then — Lupa?”
After he’d hung up, based solely on the half of the conversation I’d heard, I said, “Well, that was a little cold.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, you’re attracted to that woman aren’t you?”
“I suppose that since I have agreed to submit to your doing a profile of my work on this case, I’m obliged to share some personal information. However, I don’t think that this can possibly be argued to be applicable.”
“It’s not about the article,” I said. “This is about helping you to make nice-nice with a pretty girl who just might be your intellectual equal.”
He sighed and turned sidewise in his seat. “She is a pretty woman; you’re correct there. Also, I made no judgment as to her intelligence so far as whether it equals mine or not. I’m simply not interested in her romantically.”
He turned as if all had been said that needed said. I, however, had other feelings on the matter. “You were,” I said.
He turned again. “What?”
“You were interested in her the other day when we first met her. What happened?”
“If you must know,” he said resigning himself to the idea that I wasn’t going to let up, “it was something she said. Something that told me that pursuing a relationship with her would be fruitless.”
“Something she said just now?” I asked.
“Something she said the other day — as we were about to leave. You see, I made an assumption and it proved false. I was gruff just now because I don’t want to be seen as flirtatious by her due to the fact that her comment of the other day proves to me that we, she and I, would not work romantically.”
“She said something to imply that she’s not attracted to you?”
“No, in fact, she implied just the opposite during this last conversation. All the more reason, actually, for me to dissuade her from further advances.”
“I still don’t get it. What did she say the other day?”
“She said, ‘The one who really killed him is God.’ She was referring to Mr. Hanson.”
“And that tells you she isn’t compatible with you how?”
“I’m atheist. I need to be with an agnostic at best. Any time I spend actively pursuing a theist is wasted time. Philosophical compatibility is …”
“You actually are atheist?” I asked.
“Yes, of course,” he said.
“Beverly said…”
“Beverly is in love with me,” Schwartz said. “When we discuss religion, she selectively hears those of my ideas that she can reconcile with her own. I do not wish to be guilty of the same sophistry.”
I was still trying to piece together how Schwartz knew that Beverly was in love with him, but I asked, “So you’re willing to arbitrarily dismiss a potential relationship on the grounds of one sentence? Besides, why do we have to be discussing relationships? Just ask the lady out on a date.”
Schwartz had decided the discussion was through, and he stepped out of the car. He walked to the rectory door, and began pounding. I scurried after him as quickly as I could. I had no desire to further scuff my heel. By the time I’d reached him, a tall, thin, balding man with a dull expression and a roman collar had answered the knock. “My name is Lupa Schwartz. I’m working on the murder case involving Michael Coneely. I need to speak with him. When are you expecting him back?”
The dull man shook his head. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Before four I expect. Somebody has to hear the confessions and perform vespers. They had a priest from St. Ann’s come by this morning, but nobody’s been arranged-for for this evening.”
“Can’t you do that?” Schwartz asked.
“Me?” the dull man asked in mild bemused shock. “I’m not a priest. I’m Brother Devlin. I’m the Devlin inside,” he concluded with a well-rehearsed pun.
“Do you have a key to the hall?” Schwartz asked as though suddenly inspired.
“Sure. Do you need to go inside for something? The K of C keeps some whiskey behind the bar for when they have their to-dos, so I’ll have to come in with you, if you do have to go in.” It seemed that the good brother had better plans for his idle time than showing a pushy private detective around a vacant social hall.
“Miss Hoskin will be with me. She’ll vouch for my honesty,” Schwartz said.
“Well, who’ll vouch for hers?” Devlin said displaying his own version of a quick wit. “Look,” he continued, “I presume that you’re okay, seeing as how you’re working for the city and all, but remember, if there’s any whiskey missing, we’ll suspect you first.”
“And we,” Schwartz said, “will suspect you first.” Amazing how little of all those comedies had rubbed off. We got Devlin’s key and entered the hall sans monk. Schwartz had learned the layout earlier the day he’d examined the hall’s outside. He felt around for light switches and directed himself and me directly to the kitchen where he rooted around in the drawers until he located a large slotted spoon. Then he moved on to the cabinets which produced a water glass, some plastic wrap and a thick rubber band.
I took an eerie chill standing in that lifeless building. It smelled old and dusty. The main hall was immense having been converted from an old church. The windows were heavily leaded, and the hardwood floor had a rudimentary basketball court design, though the nets had long since been removed. There was an added creepiness in that the altar had been converted into a theatrical stage with a heavy curtain and small wings which fed stage-right from the kitchen and stage-left from the outside.
From here, we moved back outside to a location near the main water inlet. Lupa instructed me to watch for any activity while he stooped and began to shovel away large scoops of soil. He’d dug down about six inches when his hand came up from the hole carrying a rusted St. Christopher medal. “Perfect,” he said. “This will do perfectly.” He wrapped the medal in some of the plastic and filled the glass with dirt from the hole’s bottom. He covered the glass with the remainder of the plastic and sealed it with the rubber band. We refilled the hole, then locked the hall, and returned to the rectory to refund Bro. Devlin’s key.
“Did you get what you needed?” Brother Devlin asked.
“Yes,” Schwartz said, “but could you answer some questions for me?”
“I’ll try,” the monastic said impatiently.
“How long ago did the church declare St. Christopher no longer to be a saint?”
“He’s still a saint,” Devlin said. “That’s a common misconception. It’s just that his importance has been re-evaluated since Vatican II. That was in — I believe 1969 or 70.”
“Did people stop wearing St. Christopher medals immediately?”
“Some did. Mostly, he became significant only for people traveling. Some people still have St. Christopher medals and statuettes in their cars.”
“But do many people still wear the medals on a daily basis?” Schwartz asked.
“Not very many,” Devlin answered. “I probably haven’t seen one in at least fifteen years. Maybe more.”
“That’s what I wanted to know,” Schwartz said. “Thank you very much for your assistance. Please tell Mich
ael that I’ll call him this evening to set up a new meeting.”
***
We drove to the coroner’s office to drop off the soil sample and the corroded medal. Schwartz didn’t even ask to speak with Miss Corwin. He simply deposited his booty, and off we went.
On the trip home, I tried to make sense of what was all the hullabaloo over the medal? After finding out what he’d learned in his earlier conversation with Corwin, I began a minor interrogation. “You want to see if there’s any Chlordane in the soil around the church hall. Is that right?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Okay, I can understand that. So what’s the significance of the medal you found?”
“It might help to date the soil sample. I think you’ll agree that it’s a reasonable assumption that the medal has been sitting in that same soil for several decades. The corrosion proves that it’s not sterling. It’s slightly porous, so it too should have probably absorbed some of the chemical if it’s been exposed since before 1988 as the evidence would suggest. Frankly, if I’d found just a coin or a piece of porcelain, it might have been compelling evidence. However, the medal has a specific mythology that makes it ideal. I purposely chose to excavate where I did because children often play on pipes, and they’re constantly losing things. Also the pipes carry moisture which would help to prevent evaporation of the Chlordane.”
“So if you find Chlordane there, what will that prove?” I asked.
“If I find evidence of Chlordane it will prove nothing at all.” Schwartz said, and then he changed the subject. “I don’t believe there will be any more progress in the case today. Tomorrow is Sunday, and I doubt that Coneely will be available to talk tomorrow. Would it be all right with you if I showed up at the Century Club tonight? I’ll ask Beverly to be my guest so that I won’t seem a third wheel. I’ve been wanting to hear Detective Johns’ band.”
“Are you a fan of the blues?” I asked.
“Not especially, no. However,” he said, “I am a fan of the police department.”
Chapter 15
Our return to the Victorian found Schwartz and me alone in the home for the first time since my arrival in Pittsburgh. Mia had been sent to retrieve the Tracer, and Bev had apparently decided to accompany her. The note on the hall table suggested that they would be stopping by the market for a ham for that evening's dinner, and it suddenly dawned on me that for the past couple of days Schwartz had been eating non-kosher in an almost belligerent manner.
Moments after our arrival, the Tracer pulled into the garage entry. Schwartz started down the steps to inquire about the car, and Beverly met him with her canvas shopping bag. She asked him to help her carry the bag as Schwartz protested that he had to check on the car. “The car will be there later. Do you expect a woman to carry all of this weight up all of those stairs while there’s a big strong man available to carry it for her?” Beverly insisted.
Schwartz conceded, and the pair left for the kitchen. “Did you get it?” I asked Mia.
She smiled and tapped a paper bag she held. The tinny hollow sound of a license plate tinked that she had. “Tell, Schwartz that I’ll be up shortly. I’ve got to get this plate to that Fiero before the police notice that it hasn’t got one. Keep him out of the garage. If he comes looking for me before I get back, he’ll want to know where I went.”
Mia had called it right. Schwartz had entered the stair well before I could even get to the top of the first flight. Fortunately, however, I’d already had the foresight to think of a tactic to turn him around. “Did you ask Beverly yet?”
“Ask her what?” Schwartz asked.
I didn’t know if he was being coy, facetious, or cruel. “Did you ask her to be your guest to the Century Club tonight?”
The look on Beverly’s face when Schwartz asked her to be his guest that night erased almost all doubt that she was, in fact, infatuated by if not in love with him. All through dinner that night (roast ham with cloves, three-cheese potato casserole and a pear sauce side dish) she grinned, and her foot was inconsolable in its need to wiggle.
After dinner, while Beverly, Mia and I washed dishes, Schwartz began mixing bread flour, yeast, spices and raisins. It was the first time I’d seen him in the kitchen to do household chores since I’d arrived. He moved quickly and purposefully, glancing from time to time at the recipe card he’d placed on his work surface. In short order he had assembled a dough which he wrapped in plastic and placed in the cooler. He then excused himself and retired to his bedroom to dress for the evening.
“What was that all about?” I asked. “Was he just suddenly overcome with the desire to make raisin bread?”
“No,” Beverly answered, “he always does all of the cooking on Sunday. It’s his way of giving me a day off. But I don’t think it’s raisin bread though. I think we’ll be having hot-cross-buns for breakfast. I hope you like lemon. He’s a little heavy handed with the zester for the icing.”
The dishes done, the three of us ladies set off to gussy up for the night. I took a quick shower and moussed my short hair, put on my minimal makeup and set about selecting a dress from my meager bag. I’d really only brought one “night out” type of outfit, and I’d worn that the night before, so I was going to have to improvise. I selected a pair of snug, dressy looking jeans and a cream colored blouse. I left the blouse unbuttoned respectfully yet seductively and accessorized with a brown belt and slim gold rolo necklace. I looked good, but not great.
I stepped out onto the porch where we had all agreed to meet. Mia was the only one there, and when I saw her, I was glad that Trevor had made a point to ask me to invite her along for his friend. It helped diminish the overwhelming envy I was feeling for her. She was dressed all in black; black pumps, black stockings with a back-seam, a low-cut and clingy black dress and a thin black choker with a single and tiny pearl cameo. Her black hair cascaded to one side, and her makeup was subtlety applied but so vibrant that her facial hues shone against her neutral base colors in such a way that her beautiful face seemed all that she was — the sum of her parts.
“Wow!” I said. “You look great. I thought you didn’t have any feelings for Jimmy.”
“Excuse me?” Mia said.
“That outfit,” I said. “You’re wearing that for somebody.”
“So you’re saying that a person’s choice of evening attire is decided by who she may or may not want to impress?”
“That is what I’m saying. Yes.”
“Then may I ask—who are you trying to insult?”
“Excuse me?”
“I thought you were kind of warm for Johns is all.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, if I’m dressed to impress Jimmy, you can’t be dressed to impress Trevor. Not in that outfit.” She was lucky she had that coy smile on her face, or I might have been tempted to show her what a real insult was, and I might even have added in a little injury for good measure. Instead I got defensive.
“I only had so much room in my suitcase, and I wore my party dress last night.”
“Would you like to borrow something of mine?” I thought back to the evening before and remembered the shimmering top that seemed to have been designed to contour a playmate, and I saw the dress she was wearing as she stood before me now; the crepe burrito wrapper of a dress that somehow seemed a shade less descent than nakedness. These were the kinds of clothes she wore, and here she was asking me if I wanted to borrow something of hers.
“Absolutely,” I said. “Yes, absolutely. What have you got?”
***
Schwartz and Beverly were waiting for us when we came down to the porch for the second time. Beverly was in a dark floral print with her hair fastened back both neatly and loosely, while Schwartz wore a teal silk shirt and a pair of dapper black cuffed pants. I wore an unusual smile on my face, in addition to my unusual outfit. I looked good (different but good,) and I knew it. I hadn’t worn a skirt this size since third grade. It was plaid, mostly dark green with re
d accents, pleated and light. I had stockings on, white with a thick band at the top that slightly added contour to my thigh in a way that would have looked like it was choking off cellulite if the band hadn’t been so broad. As it was, it gave my leg definition and length. Short boots with tall heels gave my legs even more shape. I also wore a white turtleneck top, and over this I wore a solid green vest that matched the skirt. Mia felt that my short hair needed some splash, so she ran over my do with a volumizer and sprayed a little red into my hair from a can of spray-on color. I’d removed my chain when Mia had said that she felt jewelry was ornamentation best reserved for those who rely on distractions from their faces.
It almost felt dishonest to approach dating this way, but as my best friend from high school used to say — almost ain’t is.
Schwartz’s eyebrows made a slight twitch, and Beverly smiled cheerfully when she first saw us. “Well,” she said, “look at the two of you, would ya? Lupa, did you see these girls?”
“You two are riding in the back,” Schwartz said.
***
We selected a table near the stage. Then, while the others waited for a waitress, I approached the bar. “Hi,” I said to the bartender in my friendliest tone. “I hear you make the best bourbon and water rocks in the tri-states. Can you make one for me, please? And you know what would really make that drink just right? A twist of lime. No fruit pulp; just the peel. Could you do that for me?”
“Lady,” he said, “I know what a twist is. Would you like me to rub it on the glass rim too?”
I collapsed onto the bar top, exhausted from all of the charm I’d been trying to manifest. “Yes, please,” I said. “Thank goodness. I was beginning to think there wasn’t going to be a bartender in all of Pittsburgh who knew how to make a proper drink. How much?”
“Eight dollars.” he said, but I was sure he meant Canadian dollars.
“How much?” I asked in disbelief.
“Eight dollars,” he said. “Plus gratuity if you’re so inclined.”
“It’s a shot of bourbon and some water,” I said. “How does that come to eight dollars? Unless you grew the lime from a seed.”
“There’s two bands tonight,” the bartender explained.