I said, “I hope so.” And then, while she waited for me to go on, “I bought some azaleas the other day. From your brother. I don’t think they look too healthy, I’ve got them in my trunk. Can you give them a look-see?”
She poked the soil around the plants with one finger. “I don’t know about these containers.”
“I live in an apartment. On the second floor. I put them out on my porch; they get plenty of sun.”
She frowned. “That may be part of your problem right there — azaleas like some shade. Furthermore, this isn’t a real good time to plant them — didn’t Paul tell you?”
I got him off the hook. “Yes, but I was pretty determined. I guess I have a lot to learn about gardening. That’s because in real life I’m a cop. Ben Edison. I think we more or less grew up together.”
Her “Really?” was cool. “Do you want us to take these back? Is that what you want?”
I shook my head. “No, I’ll muddle on.” I shut the trunk. “What I really want is to talk to you. About the night Rosejoy Precious was killed. When her body was dumped in Big Tree Park.”
She looked me straight in the eye. “What could I possibly know about that?”
“Your brother told me he was out of town but you were here. Maybe you saw something, heard something? We’re having a kind of a tough time with this, anything at all might be a help.”
“Sorry,” she said and turned on her heel, headed back to the shop.
I tried a stab in the dark. “I was looking around just now, thought I saw a vegetable patch in the back there. And what looked like some watermelon vines. You folks grow watermelons?”
“It’s the wrong season for watermelons.”
She threw the words over her shoulder. I stayed close behind.
“I know, but they look like watermelon vines. I know a lady who says you grow the best watermelons she ever ate. Now, I’m really fond of watermelon. I suppose there’s no chance at all I could grow a vine on my porch — what do you think?”
“I think you’re wacko, that’s what I...”
Paul Reston loomed up in the near doorway.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Have we got a problem?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” she said and I interrupted with, “Well, there might be a problem.”
The itch had hit me, the inexplicable signal that told me I was in the ballpark, all I needed to do was get a hit, even a single. It took two people to transport Rosejoy’s body, two strong people, and here I was, facing two strong people. I took a calculated swing.
“Who decided to get rid of her? Who did the deed while the other watched?”
Pauline Reston’s eyes blazed. “Wacko, that’s what. What are you talking about? Paul, I think — it sounds like he’s accusing us.”
Paul Reston made a sound as though he’d been punched in the stomach. He gagged, and for a minute I thought he was going to throw up. Pauline turned on her brother and slapped him across the face. He blinked and backed off.
“He’s subject to fits,” she told me, face suddenly smooth. “You’ve upset him, brought on a attack.” She reached for the telephone, “I’ll call 911 for the medics, Paul. Just sit down, you’ll be all right. Shut your mouth — and breathe naturally.”
That’s it. Shut your mouth.
“I... I... I...” gurgled Reston.
Pauline took charge.
“Bring your car up,” she ordered. “We won’t have time for the medics.”
I went closer to Reston. “They say they come out of it. They say just watch, if they get a tongue in the throat, pull it up and out...”
“Get your car!”
I went. When I came back, he was lying quietly, breathing normally. “He’s come out of it,” she told me. “Just like you said. I guess I had you bring your car up for nothing.”
“I see.” And then, “Actually, I’ve been waiting. Outside the door. I carry a small recorder around with me, it saves me from getting writer’s cramp. Want to hear what I heard?”
Paul Reston sat up slowly. He looked at his sister, but she paid him no attention, she was concentrating on me. I punched REPLAY.
“Control yourself, you fool. He’s only stringing bits and pieces together. He doesn’t know, I tell you. Pull yourself together! And take that wounded look off your face. You’re the one who got us into this mess. I told you to leave the girl alone. I told you you couldn’t marry, not ever. Winged Angels can’t marry, neither can Devil’s Disciples, period, end of sentence. We’ll spend our lives together, side by side, the bad and the good, all stirred together by our feckless father before we were born. And then — oh, the gall of it — you had to go and get the silly girl with child! When she told me, blinking at me with those cow eyes, I had a pair of bull clippers in my hand, heavy bull clippers I was using to prune the crepe myrtle, so I used them on Ms. Rosejoy Precious. To prune... Our children are seedlings, seedlings that we feed and nurture and grow... beautiful seedlings, perfect plants, bearing perfect fruit... Lie back now, he’ll be coming...”
“I never figured the killer for a woman” was George’s comment. “Things have sure changed; they are even sending them to the electric chair. Shakespeare said it: the female is getting deadlier than the male.”
“It was Kipling,” I corrected him. “And what he said was that the female of the species is more deadly than the male. The whole thing goes, When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride, he shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside; but the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail, for the female of the species is more deadly than the male.’ ”
“Whatever,” said George.
“And George, that little elephant jingle your mother taught you...”
I could feel him tensing. “It’s real clever,” I said. “I’d like to write it down.”
Cro-Magnon, P.I
by Mike Reiss
Oswald, Plummer, Oxford don of paleontology, was told by his doctor to stop his excessive drinking. So Plummer moved to France, where his drinking was considered moderate; someday he would retire to Finland, where he’d be considered a model of sobriety. Oswald now gave tours of the prehistoric cave paintings of Lascaux, the one town in France where you couldn’t get a decent meal. His days were spent one hundred feet underground in a small, damp cave filled with American tourists. If this wasn’t Hell, Oswald thought, it was just a few yards away. Today’s group consisted of the thick-waisted and — witted Jeter family from someplace called Tuscaloosa.
“Behold the dwellings of Cro-Magnon man,” Oswald began dramatically. “Perhaps fifty cavemen lived here in a complex, tightly knit community. Despite their scruffy appearance, the Cro-Magnon were as intelligent and sophisticated as you or — son, please don’t lick the cave. That can’t be good for either of you.”
Ten-year-old Jason Jeter, about whom few things weren’t piggish, had licked his way through a three week tour of France. He had licked the D-Day Memorial at Normandy, the tomb of Napoleon, the Plexiglas that covered the Mona Lisa. Now he was licking the historic caves of Lascaux. “Why’s it taste so sweet?” Jason oinked.
“Bat droppings. Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you a sight once reserved for the gods,” said Oswald, herding them deeper into a tiny chamber in the rock. Above their heads was a breathtaking muraclass="underline" a thickly muscled bison snorting as he charged, deer skittering in all directions, an explosion of brightly colored spirals and polka dots, and a single handprint, the signature of the long-forgotten artist. “The colors are just as vibrant, the animals just as animated as they were when first painted, over thirty-five thousand years ago. In order to preserve the mural, we ask that you not take any flash—” Oswald saw a sudden burst of bright light. It might have been a flashbulb. It might have been his hangover.