The Horse You Came in On (32 page)

“Haven't you ever heard of the Helmsley Palace?” Jury leaned back in his chair and laughed even harder.

“Nouveau Pauvre, Hughie,” said Melrose, putting the cab driver's expert knowledge of the city to the test. He slammed the door of the cab, making the stick-on Bart Simpson doll dance.

Hughie thrummed his fingers on the steering wheel and repeated “Noo-vo Pov, hmm . . . oh, yeah! That place over on Howard that that fag runs—excuse-a
moi
—I mean
gay,
the one the
gay
dude runs.”

As they peeled away from the curb in front of the Admiral Fell Inn, Melrose wondered if “gay dude” might not be a contradiction in terms, but he let it go. It was hard enough keeping Hughie away from the fish; lord knows Melrose didn't want to engage him in discussion of activists rights or politics. “Hold the wheel when you drive, will you?”

Hughie had one arm draped across the back of the front seat and was turning a corner with a finger hooked into the steering wheel.

“And don't slow down,” said Melrose, with steel in his voice, “when you're passing the Aquarium.” He pulled out his
Strangers' Guide
and his glasses.

“Biggest sting rays in the continental U.S.” Hughie was trying to engage Melrose's eye in the rearview mirror.

Melrose refused to be engaged. As they drove along, he was looking up landmarks that Hughie had identified and saw that yes, the one far up ahead was indeed the Battle Monument. “Where's Federal Hill?”

“That's over there a couple miles from Fort McHenry. You want to go there?”

“What? No, no, I was just wondering.”

“Union troops occupied it in the Civil War. See, Maryland was kind of pro-South, but no one was ever
sure
.”

That sounded rather sloppy, thought Melrose. He returned the guide to his pocket and tried to think around the voice-over of Hughie and his version of Maryland's history. He closed his eyes and called up the image of Cider Alley, of Estes and Twyla and the peeling doorway where the body of John-Joy had been found. Perhaps Milos could fill him in about John-Joy's secret, if secret it was.

“. . . McHenry, that's where Francis Scott Key was when he wrote ‘Star-Spangled Banner.' Did he write both words
and
music, do you know?”

“Oh, probably not. He probably had a collaborator.”

“Like the Gershwins, maybe.”

“Um-hmm.” Melrose let Hughie rattle on as they drove along a street on each side of which were ranged antique and secondhand-furniture shops. Nouveau Pauvre, Melrose saw, as Hughie slowed the cab, enjoyed a prospect at the top of a sort of stair-step lineup of stoops and roofs. It was a romantic-looking little place, white clapboard and lacings of filigree ironwork trimming steps and porch.

When Hughie showed signs of searching for a parking place so that he could, no doubt, accompany Melrose in his venture, Melrose told him to drive around for an hour or so, or collect another fare, and then return for him. The cab stopped and Melrose climbed out.

The wrought iron trim work, the sort of thing that Melrose had seen in adverts for “bijou” cottages and in pictures of New Orleans, led upwards to a landing that was high enough off the ground for a man easily to stand beneath it.

A man did, and with his dog.

If Melrose hadn't known his name was Milos, he could certainly have told from the sign behind him warning visitors to stay away from his grate. The burly man, his mismatched suit topped off with what looked like an army greatcoat, looked to be permanently planted in the shelter of the shop above him. Melrose thought he had developed some rapport with the homeless by now, as he smilingly peeled a bill from his money clip. The dog appeared to be friendlier than the man; it was a hound of questionable pedigree, and it barked lightly—
wap wap
—and wagged his stub of a tail.

“I beg your pardon. I wondered if I could have a word with you.” Melrose crinkled the bills, hoping that the blind man would be aware he was quite willing to pay for information. This particular blind man had the unnerving eye contact that made him appear to be staring straight at you, which had made Melrose forget for the moment that Milos was also deaf.

Melrose noticed a small collection of cigarette butts in a tin ashtray, and pulled out his cigar case. The dog barked appreciatively, a fellow smoker, perhaps. Then he thought of what Jury had said about writing on Milos's hand and reached for it. He slapped the cigar into his palm.

The reaction he'd expected was a fumbling, clutching, grunting acceptance of the object in his hand. Instead, Milos lifted the cigar, ran it under his nose, and made to put it in the breast pocket of his suit coat,
underneath the heavy topcoat. He made several aborted stabs at the pocket but couldn't get it in. He tried the other pocket and succeeded. He made no comment, apparently accepting both the money and cigar as his due.

Well, this would not be a conversation in which one could observe the introductory pleasantries, so Melrose simply raised the man's hand again and sketched on the palm:

“John-Joy?”

“Who, me? I ain't John-Joy. Can't you read?” and Milos stabbed his thumb behind him.

“No, no,” said Melrose, the verbal protest automatic. He sighed and raised Milos's hand again, carefully wrote:

“What are the do-ings?”

Milos moved his head quickly, left to right, a gesture that would have suggested, in a man blessed with sight, that he was searching for something up or down the street. He yelled, “How the hell would I know what they're doing? I'm blind, asshole, or ain't you noticed!?”

Melrose grabbed his hand again and wrote, in as large letters as the palm would accommodate:

“No”

which he followed with:

“The doings.”

“Yeah? Well, there ain't nothin' doin' with you, either, dickhead, so fuck off!”

If Baltimore police got information out of Milos (which they apparently had, some sort of information), they must have more patience than any police force Melrose had ever been acquainted with.

He sighed and gave up and mounted the stairs.

 • • • 

“Hello there. Looking for a gift? Friend gone bankrupt? Broker bolted? Tax audit coming up? All of the above?”

This series of questions came from an agate-eyed, rangy man who shot them off as he walked towards Melrose. And “shot” was a fairly appropriate word, given the way he was dressed: in an embroidered vest, tooled-leather western boots, and a down-to-the-ground, lightweight coat that would have looked good on Clint Eastwood in one of those spaghetti westerns. It was hard to tell whether he was dressing for business or if the business had been chosen to serve as backdrop—another theatrical arrangement.

“Gay dude” was probably just one of those Hughie assumptions. This one would have a lot of appeal to women. Melrose returned the infectious smile. The patter was certainly more interesting than the usual
“Are you being served?” Melrose answered, “None of the above, actually. I'm a visitor and I'm looking for something to take back with me. Something terribly American.”

The man smiled. “There's nothing in there that's
not
terribly American.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his stone-washed jeans and looked happily around, as if he never ceased to be delighted by his own ingenuity.

“Are you the owner?”

“I certainly am.”

“My name is Melrose Plant.” Melrose extracted one of his ancient cards from his calling-card case and handed it over. Titles usually get results.

Alan Loser studied the engraved card. “ ‘Caverness.' It is
Lord
Caverness?”

“Lord Ardry, actually. Family name. Earl of Caverness. Et cetera.”

“I'm impressed enough by the ‘earl' part. Can't imagine what the ‘et cetera' might be.”

Melrose merely smiled. He was examining a shelf of books, none of which he'd ever heard of, and he wondered if they'd been chosen for their obscurity. And then his eye lit on a familiar-looking shiny red cover. Aha! So
this
is where she'd bought it!

“I see you're looking at the books. Does your friend like to read?”

Could Agatha read? He picked up the copy of
Strangers' Guide
. “Menus, perhaps.”

Alan Loser chuckled. “Likes to eat, does she? Then how about this?”

The book he handed to Melrose was titled
Okra Outings
. On the cover was a car out of which several spindly-looking okras, all dressed in sunglasses and little hats, were climbing with picnic baskets.

“Gives you ninety-nine ways to cook okra—for picnics, covered-dish suppers, bag lunches, you name it. I don't think you'll find an okra cookbook in England. Not, of course, that you'd want one in England.”

“I don't think I could find an
okra
in England. Isn't it that dark green, slimy vegetable that goes in—what's it called?”

“Gumbo. There aren't any gumbo recipes in this, though.” He leafed through the book. “She doesn't want to do the obvious.”

“It never occurred to me there was anything obvious to do with okra at all.”

“I know. She tells you how to cook it to get rid of the slimy coating.”

“But if it's slimy in the first place, why cook it at all?”

“As you can imagine, the book wasn't a huge commercial success.”

“I don't imagine any of these books were.” Melrose looked around. “Mightn't all of this failure actually put off customers?”

“Good God, are you joking? Or do you have a higher opinion of human nature than I do? You seem to be ignoring man's baser inclinations. That's what I thought of naming the shop at first, the Baser Side. But then I liked the variation of ‘nouveau riche' much better.”

“Here, I think I'll have this.” Melrose handed him the copy of
Strangers' Guide
.

“Good choice. Probably the most idiotic guidebook ever written.”

Well, Melrose didn't know about that. He felt like defending the Bessie sisters, having spent so much time with their little family. God only knew, had it not been for Lizzie and Lucie Bessie, he'd have been stuck with Hughie's version of everything. “Friend of mine bought me one.” He held up his own copy.

Alan Loser laughed. “
You're
the person? Ellen was in here just a few days ago.” They had moved to the counter, and Loser was getting out some ribbon and paper. “How do you know Ellen?”

“I met her in England a couple of years ago. She was careening across the North York moors on a BMW.”

“Sounds like her.”

Melrose watched as Loser deftly wound the ribbon round the package. “She was researching a book, but I don't think she ever wrote it. I mean, not that particular one. Have you read
Windows?
”

Loser nodded. “Couldn't make head nor tail out of it.” He added, “Of course, I'm no critic.”

But Melrose thought the tacked-on comment was unapologetic.

“She seems to be having trouble with the new one. You know, a student of hers was murdered, she told me. Horrible. Well, I expect murder put her off writing.” This was so far from the truth he very nearly blushed.

“You mean Beverly Brown.” Loser snipped the end of the ribbon.

“I think that was the name. Did you know her, then?”

“Oh, yes. She worked here several afternoons a week. A graduate student. Cops were all over the place. Not only that, but a couple of your own countrymen were here. CID men.” He placed the wrapped parcel on the counter. “Yes, Beverly created quite a stir, you know. Supposedly turned up a manuscript by Edgar Allan Poe. But I suppose Ellen told you.”

“Yes. Extraordinary. Do you suppose it's genuine?”

Loser shrugged. “How could anyone have faked something so elaborate? And since it was unfinished, that removes the problem of having to have the imagination of a Poe, doesn't it?” He laughed.

Melrose had moved over to the dining room table and the Helmsley Palace place settings. He fingered one of the napkins; he smiled. They
had decided last night, sitting there in the Horse that Ellen had been right; Beverly Brown had left her mental fingerprints on the story she'd manufactured.

“It's like the candy box,” Ellen had said. “She must have seen that table setting every time she went to Nouveau Pauvre.”

“But why,” Wiggins had asked, “would she leave something in the story that could prove it's a fraud?” Wiggins had not been at all happy about the conclusion they'd reached as to the story's authenticity.

Alan Loser's voice broke into Melrose's memory of last night's conversation. “You know about Leona Helmsley over there? The Queen of Mean?”

“Helmsley? Yes, I've heard of her.” Melrose fingered a napkin. “Could I buy one of these?”

“Frankly, I'd rather sell the entire set of them.”

“All right. I'll take the lot, then.”

“All
twelve
of the damned things?” Loser uttered a short, aborted laugh.

When Melrose nodded, he shrugged and started collecting them from the table. They moved over to the counter again and he started searching for a box.

“Everyone else has his theory. Why do you suppose she was murdered?”

“Beverly made enemies fairly easily. I don't imagine Professor Vlasic was too happy with her ‘find.' Since he thinks himself an expert on Poe, I'd guess it'd be galling to have one of his own students acquire something as valuable as an original manuscript and then proceed to overshadow him by writing a thesis on it. Knowing Beverly, that could even be the reason to choose him as advisor. Make him eat some crow. Vlasic is the only professor who ever gave Beverly less than an A. I thought she'd kill him.” Loser found a shoe box and started folding the napkins into it. “And then there's the professor she worked for as grad assistant. She got into his computer system—the guy's a genealogist—and messed up his records. She was quite a joker.”