"So are you going to leave the card?" I asked.
"I'll mail one. That's why I need the address."
***
The following day was uneventful from both the standpoint of the investigation, and from a personal standpoint. The house stayed silent until nearly ten o'clock. Schwartz was the first up, followed shortly by myself and finally Beverly. Mia was absent; since Sunday was the day she spent with her grandmother.
Actually, Schwartz had been up twice already to proof his dough and to divide it into balls. Now that a crust had formed, he slit Xs into the skins and placed them in the oven. I watched as he made the icing, and Bev was right, he was heavy-handed with the lemon zest.
"May I ask you," I said before Beverly had joined us, "why are you making hot-cross-buns? Easter was months ago."
"That's another problem with religions," Schwartz said. "They find symbolism to apply to the most delicious foods so that we associate it only with their holidays. What is there about pumpkin pie and turkey that make these delicacies only appropriate for Thanksgiving Day? Which trait of eggnog makes it impotable for any season other than Christmas? Why should it be impossible to find a tavern serving corn beef and cabbage before or after March seventeenth?
"Another thing, why are so many of these holiday-specific symbolic-foods breads or cakes? Bannocks on May Day, Pink buns for Cheng Chau, Pan de Muerto for the Day of the Dead, and katayif only after the Ramadan fast. Why should this be? I love challah, and I really don't care if it's Rosh Hashanah or not."
He continued to rant, and was babbling something about the rules of ahimsa, halal and kosher law when Beverly joined us. She interrupted him mid-thought saying, "Don't mind him. He'll only eat hotdogs on the Fourth of July."
"That's different," Schwartz said. "I don't like hot-dogs. I've seen how they're made. I eat them on Independence Day only out of camaraderie and patriotism."
Beverly's presence brought a more relaxed atmosphere. Soon we were laughing and joking over buns and coffee. After breakfast, Schwartz gathered up the dishes while Bev and I settled on the front porch with the Sunday paper; Schwartz joining us only once he'd caught up with his chores.
The paper was savored, devoured slowly like a python with a freshly killed caiman so that it was a full hour before we got on with our day. In the Schwartz household, Sunday was for doing as much nothing as could be squeezed into twenty-four hours.
We took Beverly to church, and Schwartz and I took a ride in his old Packard until it was time to pick her up; we sat in the garden drinking iced tea and telling jokes; we watched Weekend At Bernie's on video; around five o'clock we divided ourselves and explored separate interests — I surfed the net, Beverly read through some magazines, and Schwartz prepared dinner.
Dinner was the first meal since breakfast, and it was a strange aggregate of savory and sweet. He made succotash of garden fresh lima beans and sweet corn, rolls with sweet butter, garlic toast, tart macaroni salad with sweet pickle juice, and fruit salad with sour cream. The entrees were made on his brick grill, and they warrant special description.
The grill was actually two grills. The left was propane; the right grill was charcoal. He used both to make a chicken entrée and a pork entree. Thick pork chops were smeared with crushed garlic and olive oil, then coated with a rub of ground black pepper and coriander which Beverly had harvested the previous year, then grilled on the propane side. Par boiled chicken breasts and legs were stripped of most of their skin and drizzled with honey, then they were grilled under cover over hot coals onto which brown sugar was continually thrown.
We feasted from six-thirty until eight o'clock. Then while Schwartz cleared the mess, Beverly and I retired to the porch to await Mia's return. Tired and a little bloated, I nursed a decaf coffee while Beverly sipped a piña colada; each of which had been prepared by Schwartz. At nine, Mia arrived by bus. She joined us on the porch, and Schwartz mixed her a rum-and-coke and poured himself a stout. By ten Schwartz was ready to retire, but we ladies stayed out on the porch. We had work to do after all.
Thursday night, we had been lucky enough to find those young men to help us move the trailer by brute strength. This night, we would have to do it mechanically.
Mia went into the garage and soon pulled out in a le Baron Station Wagon with a ball hitch on the rear bumper. We hitched the trailer and backed the Fiero into position just before the driveway to Schwartz's garage. Before raising the car with the jacks, removing the trailer and lowering the car to the ground, we had to physically push the trailer into position once we'd unhitched and taken the le Baron back inside. Now, with the Fiero blocking the drive, the trailer was trapped outside the garage, so we pulled it up the road and left it.
The temptation to re-flatten the tires was strong, but we fought it and left the tires alone. Half an hour later, we were back in the house, in our beds, ready for the next day.
***
Monday was the day of the funeral. We awoke that day at our usual times to a breakfast of corned beef hash and fried eggs with wheat toast. As we were finishing our coffee, while Schwartz and Bev were planning the week’s menu, we could hear a truck pulling up in front of the house. We had a fair guess who it was, so we gathered at the front door. It turns out, our fair guess was correct.
A tow truck had pulled up, and the Fiero's driver (or Fiero's parker) who had blocked Schwartz's driveway on Thursday night, stepped down to the street. She saw that we were watching, and when she noticed that her tires held air, she shouted at us. "Hey! Who put that gunk in my tires?" Though in her heavily accented mouth, it sounded like, "Who put dat gunk in my tahrs?"
Mia shouted back, "There's nothing in your tires but air," as she approached the woman on the street. The rest of us followed as she continued explaining, "We have a compressor. I filled your tires with it. They were never damaged; the air was simply let out."
"Oh, is that all?" the woman said with snot coloring her voice. She unlocked her door and stopped fast. "Is the car safe to drive?" she asked.
"Of course it's safe," Schwartz said. Then shifting tactics he asked, "That's a five speed, isn't it?"
The woman sat behind her wheel, but did not shut the door. She spoke from the safety of her car. "That's right," she said.
"How much has Mr. Moreck offered you for it?" Schwartz asked.
"Six-five," she answered.
"I'll give you seven," Schwartz said. The woman began to protest that she'd already practically promised to sell the car to Moreck for six-five, when Schwartz interrupted, "Tell him I offered you seven. He'll offer you seven-five. It's worth eight."
Once she and her tow truck escort had gone, I asked how Schwartz had known about the transmission being five-speed. He explained that most of the GTs in 1986 had been four speed. His own was one of these. However, late in the run, a few of the '86s had been built with five-speed transmissions. In fact, at a recent classic car show, he and his neighbor, Zvi Moreck (a professor of engineering at Pitt University who disliked Schwartz because Schwartz refused to call Zvi — a member if IEEE — "doctor") had gotten into an argument in which Moreck belittled Schwartz for only having a four-speed '86 GT. Schwartz had realized the car had been placed as a taunt from Moreck as soon as he'd seen it.
Beverly sardonically huffed that Schwartz had shown some loyalty telling that woman how much more she could make if she'd barter. Mia giggled and said, "That car's not worth eight thousand dollars. She'll go to Moreck and say Schwartz offered her seven thousand. Maybe he'll call her a liar, maybe he'll offer her seven himself or even seven-two, but he'll never go seven-five. Either she'll call him a chiseler or she'll sell it and think she was gypped. Either way; neither one of them gets satisfaction from the sale."
"Oh," Beverly said with a satisfied grin. "But what happens if she comes back expecting her seven thousand dollars?"
"If she has any pride at all, she won't come back here," Schwartz said. "And if she does come back, I'll offer her an even trade of my six thousand d
ollar GT plus two thousand dollars. I'll still come out ahead. I only paid three thousand for mine, and I prefer a five-speed anyway."
Chapter 18
The only business we were to conduct that Monday was to speak with Fr. Coneely later that evening. With time to kill, I spent much of the day making and reviewing notes on the case as I knew it so far. I was trying to find the clues that Schwartz claimed to have gleaned already. In my reexamination, there were a few intimations that might have been cues as to where the poison had come from and who had dosed the victim, but I only found out about them later, so I'd be lying if I said I could point them out at the time.
Before I could settle down to try to solve this case, however, I had another chore to complete. This was the day that Foyer's article was supposed to appear in the paper. After breakfast I settled in the back yard swing with the paper. Schwartz read the news before breakfast, and I didn't interrupt. After all, it was his; he deserved to read it first.
The whole purpose for my reading the paper was to examine Foyer's review. For some reason, though, I couldn't bring myself to turn to that page. I told myself that I'd read the review after I'd read the headlines. Then the headlines led to the stories they heralded. Then the stories led to the editorial page. The editorials led to the op-ed page, which led to the editorial cartoons, which led to the funnies, which led to the horoscopes. By the time I'd finished the ads and the obituaries, I was out of welcome distractions.
Finally, my resolve set in, and I began reading Foyer's review. It began respectfully enough.
Saturday night in Oakland is never dull, and this past Saturday was not the exception to prove the rule. I attended a unique show at the Century Club at the invitation of a fellow journalist.
"Okay," I thought, "this was readable." So I continued.
She assured me that any misgivings I might have had about the theme of the show, sort of a father/son night at the frat house, would be thrown off the minute the first of the two bands began to play. She wasn't far from wrong.
The band that opened the show is called Humpback and the Blues Whailers, and they're made up of some of Pittsburgh's finest, and yes, they are a blues band. I have to tell you that for a bunch of old boys-in-blue playing a bunch of good-ol'-boy blues, they're pretty darned good. Now I know what you're thinking. Foyer — you're thinking — you're making this review extra lenient in lieu of making a contribution to the Policeman's Benevolent Fund this year. To this I say read on.
The band began their program by mocking the very kinds of bands they claim to admire with a Blues Brothers’ opening complete with synchronized horn section choreography and synthesized organ chords. As nostalgia, there's nothing wrong with that in itself, but an audience has to be able to hearken back farther than last month in order to appreciate what they're being asked to hearken to.
About this time, I was wondering if I'd maybe missed something in the business section that I could turn to rather than continue. But, never let it be said that a Hoskin couldn't take the heat. I forged on.
The audience of gen-X metal fans — who had really come to hear the main attraction, FdP — sat in stunned silence as Humpback drove their father's Oldsmobiles through a number of ol'-timey saws that might as well have included "King of The Road" and "Sweet Adeline" for all of the recognition it sparked. Then the magic happened. Inspiration had come to some one of the show's architects in the form of a cross-over number, with FdP's excellent guitarist, Mack "Daddy" Dinini sitting in on one of the blues tunes.
For two paragraphs, Foyer told the saga of the dim lights and the searching spotlight that had finally revealed Dinini standing in the wings. Two more paragraphs were expended relaying the tale of the following number, and singing the praises of Jason's voice. Little mention was made of Jimmy's virtuoso performance, and absolutely no mention was made of Penelope's capably crafted vocalizations. I felt terrible.
The remainder of the review was glowing in its portrayal of FdP and their "mercurial" and "potent carnival of a concert." There was absolutely no more mention of the Blues Whailers or the cheers they'd gotten from the supposedly un-hearkening gen-Xers. Maybe if I'd been reading objectively, I could have appreciated his use of language, but I didn't want to be objective. I wanted to cry.
***
You may be wondering what the rest of the household was doing while I was reading reviews and running clue inventory. Schwartz had decided to treat the day like a day off. After breakfast he went to the garage to re-carpet something with fins, and he took Mia with him. Beverly spent the early morning in the yard up to her elbows in morning-glory vines. Then she spent the hour just before lunch de-veining shrimp and cleaning lentils for our meal.
After finishing our fish and pilaf, we settled in for our afternoons. I wrote an introductory letter to my editor for Foyer and nearly bit through my tongue while writing it, sealed it and the column in an envelope to go out in Tuesday’s mail, then continued inventory; Beverly alternated between the laundry room and the yard where she labored to decide which basil plants she'd prune, and which she'd allow to flower to seed; Schwartz made himself comfortable on his front porch with a Helen Fielding novel; and Mia went to retrieve the Packard from the Century Club and (although Schwartz wasn't told this part) to call from a pay-phone to report a car stolen from the city impound lot.
By lunch I'd come to the conclusion that I could have spent the whole day auditing the week's events with a magnifying glass and discover nothing more relevant than the fact that my lower case Es and Is look remarkably similar. I gave up on the re-check, and spent the afternoon helping Beverly prepare dinner.
One roast pork later Schwartz and I were holed up in the office awaiting Coneely’s report on the funeral and his re-hash of the night of Hanson's death.
***
The doorbell chime came just a little late at ten past the hour. Beverly answered and chaperoned the priests into the office. A light summer drizzle had begun to fall shortly after six, so the men in black glistened in the late evening sunlight which filtered into the office from the arch of five window panels. Their appearance was at once foreboding and soothing. "Mr. Schwartz," Fr. Coneely said indicating a powerful looking priest of retirement age, "this is Msgr. ur — I mean Fr. Donatelli. He was with me at the Hanson house that night, so I thought..."
"It doesn't matter what you thought, Mr. Coneely. You might have called to see if I would object to his presence." Donatelli had slunk to a position half a pace in front of Coneely. He was a barrel-chested former colonel who still felt that he had been unfairly passed over for general. It was written all over his demeanor, and it was further telegraphed by Coneely's attitude toward him. Donatelli stepped forward with his right hand extended.
"Sorry if we presumed, Mr. Schwartz. We just felt that two heads were better than one."
Schwartz looked blankly at the extended hand. "There's a saying that developed along with the annoying habit of high-fiving. When one party goes to all of the trouble to raise his hand for a celebratory slap, and the second party ignores that hand, the first party might say, 'Don't leave me hanging.' In the past, I've been presumed upon to clap hands with some buffoon who felt we'd shared a moment of comradeship. I felt foolish after, though I'd only obliged to keep the other party from feeling foolish himself. Now, not only do I often leave the other party hanging, I revel in it."
"If you don't want to shake my hand," Donatelli said, "that's fine, but you don't have to make a production out of it."
"A proffered hand for shaking is not so attention grabbing as one raised high for slapping. Refusing to shake is not so satisfying as leaving one hanging unless a production is made. You weren't invited, sir. You presumed on me. However, I'm not entirely unsympathetic to the rules of hospitality. I have a very charming cook and mechanic who live in my house. Perhaps you can spend the next hour or so in their company on the back porch watching the rainfall."
"Mr. Schwartz," Fr. Coneely began.
"You aren't my cli
ent, Mr. Coneely. You don't have to stay to speak with me, but if you do, remember that I do not work for you. I'm working for the city in this case. While it's true that my interests would benefit from talking with you, and that they might further benefit from speaking with Mr. Donatelli, I do not choose to conduct a tandem interview at this time. Just because Mr. Donatelli was able to convince the bishop to call you away from the city during a murder investigation does not mean that I can be convinced to..."
"That wasn't Fr. Donatelli's idea," Coneely insisted.
"Didn't the bishop instruct you not to hear confessions until the investigation was completed?" Schwartz asked.
"Well, that wasn't because of anything that Father..."
"What makes you think the bishop told him not to..." Donatelli began.
"Once a cat has escaped a bag," Schwartz said interrupting the cleric, "Putting her back in is likely to get you a nasty scratch. Never mind how I know. I know, and I know that you urged it. Oh, probably you had some very convincing argument. Perhaps you suggested that it was dangerous for Fr. Coneely to be hearing the confessions of the Hansons since one or more of them might be killers. Perhaps you suggested that if the killer just wanted to unburden himself, he might be remiss to do it to the man accused of his crime. Or that if he did confess, it might cause a conflict between Coneely's vow of secrecy with his instinct for self-preservation. Whatever reasons you gave the bishop, it's clear that the idea was yours if only because of the fact that you personally informed the officials in charge of the investigation (who you know are sympathetic to the church,) but you informed me with a message when you were certain I'd be out. Then you told Coneely that it was agreeable to all of those investigating the murder."