Laura Lippman - In A Strange City

The less you spoke, the more you heard.

Tess picked up the chain and then motioned to Mi-ata to sit. She knelt before her, using a small pair of pliers to remove the locket, then fasten it to the chain where it belonged. The dog had guarded her treasure all this time, but she was ready to give it up. Tess just wasn’t sure if she herself was ready. “They” are worth killing for, he had told her on the phone, the night Yea-ger was found dead. She had held the locket back from the police, waiting for the plural to assert itself. Waiting to see if the Visitor would do the right thing, and reunite the locket with its chain.

So far, so good.

“How did you know to send me to the library? Did you know about Daniel? Or did you want me to find the plaque on Mulberry Street, the one about John Pendleton Kennedy?”

“Neither. I just wanted you to learn something about Poe-and Bobby Hilliard.”

“You knew each other?”

“We met only once, but I didn’t realize it until he was dead. As for Bobby Hilliard, I’m not sure he ever made the connection. But perhaps I inspired him to pass the objects on to my alter ego. I can only hope.”

He walked to a nearby bench and sat, inviting Tess to join him. She hesitated for a moment, then followed. Miata lay at their feet, propping her chin on Tess’s boot.

“Bobby and I met, in fact, at the Paper Moon last December. The lack of all-night eateries in Baltimore does narrow one’s options, doesn’t it? I was feeling melancholy and sorry for myself and had gone there in the middle of the night in a fit of insomnia. A young man was at the counter, and I could tell he was anxious and unhappy. As I said, I taught for many years; I’m attuned to the moods of the young. We were both sitting at the counter, a stool apart, bursting with our secrets. I found myself asking if he knew much about Poe, and he looked at me as if I had just thrown scalding water on him. But he said yes, a little hesitantly, he was interested in Poe, although he cared more about him as a historical figure than he did about his work. He told me he had worked in the Poe Room for a brief time. He asked me what I knew about him, and I’m afraid I launched into the most tiresome little speech. Before I knew it, I was reciting poetry.”

Tess could imagine the scene-the empty diner, an uninterested line cook, and the two men, sitting a stool apart, honoring the unwritten rules of personal space. Two lost souls who had stumbled into one of Baltimore ’s few all-night way stations.

“But he seemed so interested,” the man said, as if he felt the need to defend himself to someone. To her? To himself? “He asked me questions about Poe’s life. He asked me if I had heard the theory that Poe had objects of value on him when he died, that he might have been drugged and beaten as part of a robbery. I was listening, and yet I wasn’t listening. I rambled on, so sure I had finally found someone to whom I could pass the torch. I asked him… I asked him…”

His voice faltered, crippled by embarrassment. Tess waited.

“I asked him to come home with me that night. In my excitement at finding someone I believed to be a kindred spirit, I envisioned showing him my props, asking if he wanted to assume the mantle, if you will. He quite misinterpreted my invitation. He was kind; it was clear he had had some experience in saying no to such invitations, and perhaps saying yes to others. I tried not to be hurt that I warranted such an automatic refusal.”

“Are you-” Tess fished for the right word.

“Gay? No, but still one doesn’t want to be rejected so summarily. At any rate, I didn’t realize whom I had met until he was dead. I never saw him again.”

“Well”-Tess tried to frame the correction as gently as possible-“you saw him at least one more time. He came to the grave site. He told a lie, and it became a plan. He told Arnold Pitts that he had given you the gold bug and the locket. He repeated the same story to Daniel Clary. Then he realized he could do just that. It never occurred to him that Pitts would try to uncover your identity or that Daniel Clary would stake out the grave site. He never meant to harm anyone.”

“Daniel Clary-the librarian, right? I read about him in the newspapers. How is he?”

“Alive, but probably wishing he was dead. He has second-degree burns over his face and hands. The criminal justice system won’t do anything to Daniel Clary that’s anywhere near as bad as what he’s done to himself.”

“Oh, yes, it can; it already has,” he said. “It can take away his things.”

Tess was thinking about Daniel Clary and Shawn Hayes, both caught in the twilight world of intensive care. The children of Shawn Hayes simply could not give up hope, and the legal implications of their decision-that he might die outside the year-and-a-day time frame necessary to charge Daniel Clary with his homicide-meant little to them. Rainer didn’t care. He had his clearances. Hilliard was the only name on the board that mattered to him, and it was now carried in black. As was the Yeager case. Now if only they could do something about the other forty homicides that had already occurred in Baltimore this year.

“Speaking of things-” His voice was tentative.

“Yes?”

“They’re not mine, are they? I don’t get to keep them.”

Tess looked at the objects now on his lap but still spread out in his handkerchief. She touched the locket, marveling at the fact that it could have been in Poe’s hand once, that the fine design might contain a lock of Virginia Poe’s hair. She almost- almost -understood their power. Over Daniel Clary, over Hayes and Pitts and Ensor, over Bobby Hilliard, who so liked pretty things and cared nothing for their pedigree.

“That’s the reason, isn’t it?”

“The reason?”

“For your notes, your elliptical clues. You wanted to do the right thing, but you didn’t want to surrender these items. You hoped Bobby Hilliard’s killer might be caught, and you could keep the chain and the bug. Although the chain isn’t worth anything without the locket, and the bug’s pedigree can never be established. Poe’s admirer, assuming she ever existed, was much too proper a nineteenth-century lady to leave behind any evidence that she had given him this.”

“But it must have been dear to him, or else he would have sold it. He was so poor, it’s touching to think he had such a fantastic bauble on him at the time of his death. Perhaps he died trying to protect these very things.”

“Assuming,” Tess said, “he ever had them. It’s a legend, nothing more. Like many of the theories about Poe’s death, it can never be proven.”

“Still.” He held the bug aloft, turning it in the light. “You’re just trying to make me feel better about giving them back.”

“It’s up to you if you take any solace in doing the right thing. The fact that you asked me to meet you here suggests to me that you know what you must do. Either that, or you thought I would give you permission to walk away with the gold bug in your pocket. But I can’t. They don’t belong to you. They don’t belong to me. They should be someplace where everyone can see them and debate their significance. Think of the joy it will bring to Poe scholars to have something new to argue about.”

She thought of Ensor and Hayes, trying to corner the market on “Baltimore-bilia.” She thought of Pitts, foisting fakes off on his partners. Then along came Daniel Clary, who stole their precious contraband, convinced that only he was worthy of these items. Where would it have ended; when would they have been satisfied? What can break the deadly chain of such acquisitiveness?

He folded the handkerchief and handed it to Tess with a sigh. “I tried to tell myself that I had earned them, in a way. For my service. But the rationalization won’t hold, I know. I had them for two months. I give them to you now, hoping my show of good faith will inspire you to do the right thing.”