“Cool paintings, huh?” asked Tamburino, seeing her interest.
“Yeah, unusual.”
“Maxfield Parrish-inspired, I'd say,” replied the store owner. “My full name's Marc Maxfield Tamburino. Close look at the signature, and you'll see the artist's name. She's a friend of mine. I've had her in to sign prints and everything.”
Jessica read the signature-Samtouh Raphael, it looked like. This meant nothing to her, but her eyes locked on one of the more unusual paintings, which depicted a beautiful woman lying at peace in a coffin, her lover holding on to her with one hand, lightly setting a book of poems into the coffin with the other.
“Dante Gabriel Rossetti,” said Tamburino, a little shake of the head accompanying a large sigh. He lifted himself onto a stool, perching there like a heavy set contemporary gargoyle. “One of the most romantic gestures in all of history. He wrote a book of poetry, every poem inspired by her, his deceased lover. You see, when his love died, he had the poems bound and he placed his only copy into the crypt with her.”
“Big deal,” said someone who suddenly stepped from the stacks, a tall, gangly woman whom Jessica for a moment took to be Leanne Sturtevante until the woman's face came into light. She was athletically thin, her cheek and jawbones protruding sharply. Her movements gave the impression of a windup toy at first, but then their oddness meshed with the rest of her and one realized that she moved like a ballerina. Gangly like a giraffe but just as graceful, Jessica thought.
Marc Tamburino instantly assailed the woman, obviously well known to him. “Big deal? How can you say that? It was from the heart when the man did it. It was passion beyond anything in the modem world.” She instantly showed her teeth in a curling smile, and raised her hand like a menacing claw, showing her long nails, painted green and black, each finger alternating in color. “A few years later, on second thought, Rossetti had the eternal love of his life exhumed to retrieve the poetry. That kind of romantic love is beyond contempt.”
“Lucky for us the man retrieved the book,” replied Tamburino. “Else the world would be deprived of those fantastic love poems.”
“All the same, it tells you something about the value of grand dramatic gestures, including those of a poet smitten by love,” replied the book-laden woman, who was staring a hole through Jessica, as if determining what kind of underwear she might be wearing. The sexual interest in the stare was unmistakable. Jessica wondered how long the woman had been in the store and how much she had overheard. “That's a grim way to think, Doctor,” replied Tamburino.
“I do love a dark statement, indeed,” the woman replied, placing her books onto a nearby cart. Next, she opened her arms with an extravagant flourish and curtsied to Jessica, who noticed that the woman had had the crown of her head shaved and the tattoo of a bat inked on the bare scalp. Since, standing up, she was half a head taller than Jessica, the sight of the flashing bat came as a surprise. As she curtsied, the woman said, “Detectives, this creature before you is Dr. Donatella Leare, full professor at the University of Philadelphia. A fortuitous coincidence, a kind of Jungian synchronicity, finds us all here at the same moment. I hope it leads to something… fruitful.”
“Dr. Leare?” Jessica was surprised that this person, dressed in what appeared to be an Indian costume, with strings of beads and crucifixes snaking about her neck and wrists, could be teaching young people at a major university, but when she flashed on some of the unusual and eccentric instructors of her own youth, she put the prejudice aside. “This is indeed a fortuitous meeting. We have been wishing to discuss the spate of deaths in the area with experts such as yourself, people who have some connection with dark side poetry. In addition, we understand you may have known some of the victims. Isn't that so, Dr. Leare?”
Jessica had to pull her hand away, the professor was holding so fast to it, smiling as she did so. Jessica wondered what sort of relationship existed between Leare and Leanne Sturtevante.
“We've been anxious to meet you. Missed you at the university and at your residence,” added Parry, staring.
“Yes, well, I understand you wanted to speak to me. Dr. Plummer's message made that clear, but coming back to this dreadful, awful business, and the lateness of the hour, I simply did not wish to deal with it tonight, so instead I came to see Marc and purchase some books I'd been wanting to delve into, and to clarify my thoughts, cleanse my mind of the wretchedness of existence, the human condition, all that, so to speak. Books do that for me. Intoxicating, really. Some people call me a literary junkie.”
“Sounds like an escape,” replied Jessica, recalling what Vladoc had said about people who had an insatiable need to run away from reality. Did Leare do this through poetry, through teaching, through sex, or a mixture of them all?
“Yes, all the same… bumping into you like this… well, it's obviously positive karma at work-that is, I hope it's positive. The moment I began overhearing your conversation with Marc, I realized just who you were. Dr. Plummer told me I should expect a visit from you and another woman. You disappoint me, coming with a new partner in tow. Plummer told me of your visit to the school.”
Parry quickly introduced himself, his eyes still unashamedly taking in the strange-looking poet, her dress, makeup, and nails. “What do you make of the dean's claims against Garrison Burrwith?”
“Silly. She's really an intelligent woman except when it comes to men and managing her emotions. Dreadful what's going on here. It's like a totalitarian state where everyone is encouraged to squeal on his neighbor. As a result of all this, I found even the wasteland of Houston a relief.”
“You knew one or more of the victims?” Parry asked. He'd circled behind her, as if curious to see if there was any tattoo or lines of poetry scribbled on her back.
“You won't find what you're looking for on me, big boy. As to your questions, yes. I knew several of the victims. At one time or another, three of them were… had taken one or more of my classes. Aside from freshman English, I teach the Romantic poets, Women in Literature, and other classes. So now you have me cornered, what else can 1 answer for you? Am I upset over these awful killings? Absolutely. Do I know anything pertaining to them? Absolutely not. So, now you tell me, how can I help you? I do wish to be cooperative with you, Dr. Coran.”
Jessica pointed to the photos still spread out on the counter. 'Tell us what you know about these kids.”
“They all loved poetry-passionately, I'd say. Not your run-of-the-mill students when it came to beauty. Ironic, isn't it?”
“What's that?” asked Parry.
“That they should all die having poetry literally branded on them.”
“How did you get that information? It hasn't been publicly released.”
“You forget. I know someone close to the investigation, and I think we should leave it at that. Back to my point- perhaps your killer hates poetry lovers? Maybe a geek who failed a literature class miserably and is taking his revenge out on better students. That would certainly satisfy audiences of most TV mysteries, wouldn't it?”
“We'll take that theory into consideration,” said Parry- not meaning it in the least, Jessica surmised, on seeing the glint in his eye as he peeked over the professor's shoulder.
Stabbing at the photo array with her index finger, she said, “Did any one of the students you knew ever speak to you about the coffeehouse poetry fad going around Second Street?”
“Ever eat raw meat? Ever sniff glue? Ever do heroin?” Leare shot back, somewhat inappropriately. “The backside writings? Certainly. It became common talk at the university as just the latest thing to do. No one for a moment thought it would catch on the way it has, and certainly no one could have predicted that it might lead to… to murder.” She paused, removing the stack of books from the cart and placing them, one by one, onto the counter. Jessica noticed they were all old paperbacks with lurid covers, mystery and suspense novels by Glenn Hale and Stephen Robertson. “Lot of jokes about the fad.” She continued to talk in a casual, breathy voice. “You know, like how do you do a rewrite, anal alliteration, anal performance, do you show it on a first date, all that.”