Laura Lippman - In A Strange City

“So is the real Visitor a suspect or just wanted for questioning?”

“Wanted for questioning, according to my sources. After all, he was closest to the scene. The homicide cop assigned to the case went on one of those silly Saturday no-news news shows this morning, pleaded with him to come forward, even promised to protect his identity. So far, no luck.”

Tess had a mental image of Rainer, with his too many teeth, his shiny-slick hair and coarse Jersey accent. He couldn’t coax a cat out of a tree with a can of tuna fish.

“The story’s growing cold,” she said. “The media will move on, if there aren’t any new developments within the next day or two.”

“But there might be a new development,” Kitty said. “The Beacon-Light’s Web site hinted the police were withholding information.”

“That Web site is a piece of shit. It’s not even staffed by real journalists. Besides, the police always withhold information. Not telling everything is basic to police work.” Tess realized her presence might be the very thing they were omitting from their public accounts, although someone had tipped the Norwegian radio reporter. Rainer, it had to be Rainer.

She hoisted herself up to the soda fountain and perched there, swinging her legs. In her down-and-out phase she had worked in Kitty’s store, met Crow here, rebuilt her life here. The place was dear to her; she hoped Kitty would stay in business for forty-fifty years, so she could keep coming back. Since her parents’ house had been so extensively renovated over the past year, she needed all the touchstones she could find.

Tyner wasn’t ready to let the subject drop. And if Tess hadn’t enjoyed a front-row seat, perhaps she would have shared his ghoulish fascination.

“Did the Web site have any more information?” he asked Kitty. “Perhaps the Visitor’s identity is the very thing the police are hiding, and the television appearance was intended to throw people off the scent.”

“It was pretty sketchy,” Kitty admitted. Somewhere in her forties-Tess had known her age once but had trouble recalling it once they moved from aunt and niece to just grown-ups-her skin was still translucent and her red curls needed only the tiniest chemical boost. Other women might be spoiled by the power that their good looks confer. But Kitty’s beauty had made her nice, in the same way some people’s inherited millions made them philanthropists. Before Tyner had come along, she had believed in sharing the wealth, taking on new lovers with an alacrity that had stunned her niece.

Kitty and Tyner had passed the one-year mark last fall, and Tyner was the only one who wasn’t surprised. He was too conceited to realize the great fortune that had befallen him, but smart enough to cherish Kitty. He loved her, and not for her red hair alone. She loved him, and Tess had decided she would master string theory before she deconstructed this particular puzzle of the universe.

“Well, I’m sure they’ll treat it like the red ball it is,” Tess said. Red ball was the local jargon for a case given top priority by the department. “ ”Once upon a midnight dreary…‘ It’s a tale worthy of Poe himself, I suppose. Death of a doppelgänger.“

“Tess”- Tyner’s voice was sly, probing-“what brought you to Fells Point today anyway?”

“Oh, I had to check some antiques stores for a hot item. A one-in-a-million shot, but the police weren’t going to do it.”

“John P. Kennedy and his bracelet?”

Tyner was in his sixties. Was it too much to ask that he start having a senior moment, here and there, and not remember everything she said? She shrugged noncommittally.

“John Pendleton Kennedy was his full name, as he kept reminding me. But he was just a little gadfly of a man, of no importance.”

“John Pendleton Kennedy. I think I know that name,” Kitty said now, moving around the store, setting things straight. She was a very proprietary proprietress.

“You’re the second person to say that to me in the last hour. Have you met him?” Tess spoke casually, or so she hoped. “He has the most annoying laugh; you wouldn’t forget it once you heard it. It sounds like a hyena having an asthma attack.”

“No, it’s the name that rings a bell, but I can’t say why. As if I read about him somewhere. I’m probably just thinking of a sound-alike-John Kennedy Toole, the writer, or one of the Kennedy-Kennedys. Or maybe it’s the simple fact of hearing three names, which makes me think of Arthur Gordon Pym, who’s been on my mind as of late, for obvious reasons.”

“Who’s he?” Tess said.

“Who’s he?” It was Tyner who queried her. “Good lord, Tess, you allegedly majored in English.”

“Yes, and I had a piece of paper to prove it, once upon a time, but it’s lost to the ages. What of it?”

“The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym,” Tyner said, “was a Poe novella. I remember reading it when I was eleven. I still have nightmares about Dirk Peters. I’m surprised you don’t know it.”

“I’m not.” Tess was seldom surprised or embarrassed by her ignorance of anything. She wondered, for a moment, if there could be a connection. But her mystery client’s middle name had been Pendleton, not Pym.

Of course, if his name was false, his story might have been false, too. Why hadn’t she considered that possibility? There probably never was a bracelet, never was a business deal gone sour, never was a forged set of papers. He had lied about his name, he had misled her about Fiestaware. How could she have assumed anything he said was true? And here she was, gullible Tess, trying to protect the little weasel.

Suddenly, it seemed silly to canvass any more antiques shops, and the snowy day was no longer serene and peaceful. The streets had turned to gray slush, and cars made horrible whirring noises as they plowed through it down Bond’s brick surface. Tess called Esskay-once, twice, three times before the dog emerged from Kitty’s kitchen, looking guilty and triumphant-and hooked her to her leash. Kitty was keen enough to sense the change in her mood, and sensitive enough not to inquire after it.

Oblivious Tyner didn’t realize she had gone through any changes at all, and he looked surprised by her abrupt leave-taking.

“See you later,” she said, bestowing a kiss on her aunt, flapping a hand at Tyner. She gathered up her bag of books and made her way back to the office, a walk that was virtually all uphill. The sidewalks were slippery, and careless cars splattered her with slush when she tried to walk in the street. By the time she turned onto her block in Butchers Hill, the handles of the grocery sack had made painful grooves in her fingers. She was trying so hard to juggle the heavy books, while holding on to Esskay and searching for her keys, that she did not notice at first the snow-etched items waiting on her doorstep.

Three red roses and a half-full bottle of cognac.

Why half empty? I don’t get that part.“ Whitney Talbot, Tess’s oldest friend, was staring skeptically at a dirty martini in the bar at the Brass Elephant. The specialty drink was the only thing that stood between Whitney and her lone New Year’s resolution-to try every one of the martini concoctions now offered in the restaurant’s refurbished bar-but the flakes of blue cheese floating in the glass were testing her resolve. She tucked a lock of blond hair behind one ear and narrowed her green eyes as if she were in a poker game with the drink. This was a dirty dirty martini, a filthy martini, platonic proof that one could take two wonderful things-good gin and blue cheese- and make something truly awful.

Tess, feeling uncharacteristically girlish, had ordered a Cosmopolitan. The pink drink was no longer fashionable and thus was enjoying a huge vogue in Baltimore just now.