The Haunting Ballad (19 page)

Over the growing clatter and chatter of incoming patrons, a high-pitched voice cried out energetically from near the doorway, “Detectives! Oh, detectives!”

As I turned toward the entrance, my eyes were snared by a gaudy display of stripes—wide, brash swatches of pink, orange, lavender, and green. It took me a few seconds to realize that I was looking at Minnie Bornstein, squeezed into a dress so vivid that yesterday's polka dots seemed downright drab. The plump music-shop owner beckoned with an animated wave. Mr. O'Nelligan and I excused ourselves from the table and went to join her.

Minnie downshifted from shout to urgent half-whisper. “Gosh! Dammit! Sorry, guys. Did I blow your cover?”

“We have no cover to blow, madam,” Mr. O'Nelligan told her. “We are guileless and transparent in our endeavors.”

“You betcha,” I more-or-less echoed.

“I was hoping to find you two here,” Minnie said, adjusting her horn-rimmed glasses. “Or just leave a note for you in case you dropped by. I found out a couple things concerning Lorraine that you might want to know.”

My partner pursed his lips. “Have you now?”

“Yeah, last night after you left, I was telling my Abe all about our conversation. I mentioned that I told you about Lorraine stealing Crimson's set and all that. Now, Abe's got a mind like a bear trap—once he hears something, he never lets it go—but me, well, I can get a bit scattered in the memory department. Anyway, Abe says, ‘Don't you remember, Minnie? You told me that story a while ago—it wasn't any Crimson, it was a fellow named—”

“Cardinal,” I finished.

Minnie Bornstein looked deflated. “You know already? Aw, here I was thinking I'd help crack your case for you.”

Mr. O'Nelligan promised her that any information was helpful and went on to show her Cardinal's letter to Lorraine.

“Any thoughts on this correspondence?” he asked.

Minnie read the letter over and handed it back. “Only that it confirms the story I heard. This guy sounds pissed off big-time, doesn't he? Think he's the culprit?”

“We're not sure if there's really a culprit at all,” I said. “As for Cardinal, we don't know anything about him. Not even his last name.”

“Meriam! It's Meriam!” Minnie beamed in triumph. “Abe remembered that, too. That's more info for you. Say, maybe I'm not such a washout after all.”

O'Nelligan, the king of consolation, assured her that she wasn't, then asked, “Do you happen to know Mr. Meriam's first name? I presume Cardinal is a sobriquet.”

“Nope, sorry. Ask some of the musicians here. Someone might have the lowdown on him.”

“You said you'd found out a couple of things,” I reminded her. “Is there something else?”

“Yes! Today I heard an interesting thing from a customer of mine, this guy Tucker who stops in occasionally to buy sheet music. He's a waiter but also an aspiring accordionist.”

“Down here, isn't every waiter an aspiring something-or-other?” I asked.

“You're not kidding! Anyway, I mentioned to him about your visit—after all, I don't get gumshoes stopping in every day—and Tucker remarked that he'd seen Lorraine the very morning she died.”

That got my interest. “Really? No one else seems to have seen her that day.”

“He says she was having breakfast at the restaurant where he works, Horton's Grill. He was in sort of a hurry today, so he wasn't able to tell me much, but he's working the evening shift there now. Here, I wrote the address down in case you wanted to pop in later and talk to him.” Minnie fished a scrap of paper out of her purse and handed it to me.

Mr. O'Nelligan leaned in to read the address. “Ah! That's a mere two blocks from where I'm meeting my friend tonight.”

“I hope you'll learn something useful,” Minnie said. “Now, I've got to run. It's Passover in a couple days, and we're having a small mob over for Seder. I've got to clean house and clear a path to the dining room. Abe says I don't know a broom from a bowling ball, and I wouldn't deny it! Good-bye and good luck, fellas.”

Minnie spun her sizable self around and headed for the exit. Halfway out the door, she stopped abruptly and hurried back to us.

“You two be careful, okay?” she said earnestly. “I'm sure you know your job and all, but do be careful. Sometimes I get feelings … like my Bavarian grandmother did … odd feelings. I got one just now.”

“What sort of feeling?” I hated to ask.

“I'm not exactly certain. Something about … about one of you being in harm's way. Oh, maybe I'm just being foolish.” Minnie Bornstein smiled wanly and patted each of us on the chest. “Just be careful.”

Then she blew out of the room like a bright, bustling storm.

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

After Minnie left the coffeehouse, Mr. O'Nelligan and I returned to our table. The Doonans had taken our seats, but a couple more chairs were promptly dragged over for us.

“That was Minnie Bornstein, wasn't it?” Neil Doonan wondered. “The lady who owns the music store.”

Patch laughed. “Jesus, do you need to ask? Who else would be brave enough to jam her girth into such a smock?”

“The room's crowded,” Neil grumbled lightly. “I didn't have a clear view of her.”

“She dresses like Fourth of July fireworks!” Patch argued. “You could spot her in a sandstorm, for God's sake.”

“Oh, sod off,” suggested Neil.

I intruded on this brotherly warmth. “Cardinal Meriam—does that name mean anything to any of you?”

Turns out it did.

“Banjo player,” Manymile said quickly. “Skinny white guy with bright red hair.”

“Hence the name Cardinal,” Patch added. “Hair as red as the bloody bird. Hails from Canada, doesn't he, Manymile?”

“That's right. From Ontario, I believe. Good finger picker, that Cardinal.”

“A sturdy voice as well,” Tim Doonan said. “Kimla, what was that song he did about the shipwreck?”

“‘The Loss of the
Antelope,
'” his girlfriend answered.

“Sure, that's it. I really like that one. A good shipwreck ballad always does me in.”

“So Cardinal lives here in the Village now?” I asked.

“No, he was just passing through,” Manymile said. “He was only around for a month or so during the winter.”

“He performed here?”

“Not at the Mercutio,” Tim said, “but at a few other places around town. We caught him a couple times, Kimla and the lads and I.”

“He had some style,” Neil added. “Mazzo would have booked him eventually.”

“Aye, if he hadn't left town in such a flurry.” Patch added, “Not to speak ill of the defunct, but it was Lorraine who's to blame for that.”

Mr. O'Nelligan leaned forward. “Are you referring to the incident in which Miss Cobble stole Cardinal's set of songs?”

Patch grinned. “Heard of that business, have you? That was Lorraine at her most conniving. It happened at a place on Bleecker called the Golden Hut.”

“You were there that night?” I asked.

“Alas, I was not,” Patch said. “Kimla here was, though, weren't you, lass?”

“Yes, I was on the bill,” Kimla answered in her quiet way. “With Lorraine and Cardinal. Well … as it turned out, only Lorraine. Because Cardinal refused to go on after Lorraine performed almost the whole set he'd planned to do.”

“So Cardinal was visibly dismayed?” my partner asked.

Kimla sighed. “Oh Lord, yes. I was sitting at the next table and saw him simmering the whole time. Song after song, he'd be mumbling to himself, ‘That's one of mine, too.' When Lorraine finally left the stage, Cardinal went up to her and whispered something in her ear. I couldn't tell what he said, but they ended up swearing at each other and storming out a few minutes apart. I had to perform right after all that, which wasn't pleasant. I think I flubbed half the lyrics of my first song.”

“Why would Lorraine have done something like that?” I asked. “Seems pretty underhanded.”

Manymile gave a little grunt. “Bad behavior on Lorraine's part, no question 'bout it. I think, in a way, she thought she had a natural claim on any song that ever there was. Didn't matter what anyone else's intentions were. After that night, Cardinal made damn sure all the musicians hereabouts heard the story. Testified up and down the street as to how Lorraine Cobble done him wrong.”

“Does anyone know Cardinal's actual first name?” I asked.

A tableful of heads shook in response.

“Were any of you well acquainted with him?” Mr. O'Nelligan asked.

Again all heads shook.

“He wasn't here very long,” Patch said. “Just another roving gypsy who tumbles into town, makes a little ripple, then tumbles out again. I had a drink or two with him once, but that was it.”

Manymile scratched his chin. “Sort of a touchy young guy, wasn't he? Took himself real serious.”

“That he did,” Patch confirmed.

“Didn't he get arrested once while he was here?” Tim asked.

“Yeah, that's right,” Manymile agreed. “Wasn't much of anything, though. Some rich guy claimed Cardinal leaned on his car and broke the antenna.”

“Desperado stuff,” Patch said. “Anyway, after the incident with Lorraine, I remember Cardinal declaring that he was done forever with the city and all its shenanigans.”

“So he went back to Canada,” I guessed.

“Farther still,” Patch said. “All the way to bloody Australia. Or so I heard.”

“I heard it was New Zealand,” Neil put in.

Patch shrugged. “Either way, he set a couple of oceans and a grand sprawl of land twixt us and him. Vanished into the cosmos, he did.”

“Did he leave before or after Lorraine died?” I asked.

“Not really sure,” Patch said. “I hadn't seen him for a while before her death, but that doesn't necessarily mean he'd already left for Australia. Anyone else here see him around then?”

No one at the table had.

I let this all sink in. “No one's heard from him since he left town?”

“Neither hide nor hair,” Manymile said. “Least no one I know ever mentioned it.” He reached over and picked up his guitar. “Well, Philomena and I best get to work. I see Mazzo just emerged from his dungeon.”

The Grand Mazzo strode over to our table, waving a fistful of typewriter paper. “The opus is finished!”

Manymile rose to his full impressive height. “Good for you, maestro. I'll loosen up the crowd, and you can floor 'em with your fancy rhymes.”

“Blank verse!” Mazzo declared. “Always blank verse. Should I introduce you, man?”

The big bluesman smiled. “Nah, if they don't recognize me by now, they never will.”

Manymile slapped Mazzo's shoulder and marched over to the small stage. With a robust strum of Philomena, he jumped into a song about a Mississippi Delta sharecropper pining for a girl called Honeylips:
The sweetest thing that I ever done had
. His full raspy drawl filled the room like a great wave.

Mazzo dropped into the vacated chair and spoke loudly over the music. “How's the investigation going, gentlemen? Anything new and dazzling?”

I recapped the Cardinal discussion for him.

“Cardinal? Yeah, I heard about that cat,” Mazzo said. “Banjo plucker. Yesterday you were asking about someone named Crimson, so I didn't make the connection. Lot of wandering minstrels sliding through these days. Hard to keep track of 'em all.”

Manymile finished his Honeylips homage and then announced, “I'd like to dedicate this next number to the gentlemen yonder.”

He gestured toward Mr. O'Nelligan and me, then launched into a tune called “Hellhound on My Trail.”

My colleague turned to me. “Ah! It seems we're being serenaded. I'm quite humbled.”

When Manymile had finished his short set, Mazzo jumped up and replaced him onstage.

Mazzo gave his ringmaster mustache a whirl. “Friends, I'd like to inform you of a mighty injustice that was perpetrated yesterday. Customs officers of our own fair land seized five hundred copies of the poetic epic ‘Howl' penned by the beatific young Allen Ginsberg. Seized them because they consider that work obscene and objectionable. Well, I object to their objection! Here's a poem I just wrote, inspired by yesterday's events.”

Consulting his pages, Mazzo rambled out a poem that, as I far as I could tell, had nothing to do with customs officials but everything to do with a swimmer's well-toned naked body undulating in the ocean. It took me several stanzas to realize that the description was not of a female but of a young man—specifically a cowboy, though how he'd traded the prairie for the seashore I'd no idea. In any case, the portrayal was fairly graphic.

Patch Doonan leaned over to my partner. “Don't be too stunned now, Mr. O'Nelligan. The Village can be a scandalous place.”

“I'm not stunned,” my friend said. “After all, do we not hail from the land of Oscar Wilde? He was the grand emperor of scandal.”

Patch chuckled. “He was, he was. My, aren't you cosmopolitan for a Kerryman.”

Mr. O'Nelligan never got to respond to that, since a loud tide of applause and finger-snapping now washed over the room. His ode completed, Mazzo bowed dramatically and called out, “Next up, the undeniable Miss Ruby Dovavska!”

Though I hadn't noticed Ruby in the room before, she now stepped out of the crowd to commandeer the stage. Still garbed all in black, the waitress of yesterday promptly became the poetess of tonight. With a toss of her long midnight hair, she explained that the upcoming poem had been composed after a sleepless night of absinthe drinking.

“I call this ‘Billboards and Blood,'” she said in a tone that suggested she didn't much care
what
it was called.