I reiterated, "There was evidence that Kevans stayed there. The Specials have that. She says she was there for a year. She knew about the place because her grandmother took her there when she was twelve."
"That's how you got to my mother."
"Does the glassware mean anything special?"
"Not really."
"Morley, could you hold that lamp up so Mr. Algarda can get a look at those pictures?"
Morley turned the pictures, too. They had not been visible from where Algarda was standing. Algarda asked, "Who are these people?"
"I was hoping you could tell me."
"I can tell you who they were forty years ago. This is my great uncle Nathaniel. He died while I was in the Cantard."
"Did he have kids? Playmate remembers him as a neighborhood thug from when he was a kid. Morley remembers him vaguely, with no where, when, or why. Today he's a resurrection man called Nathan." I had to explain that because Algarda was unfamiliar with the term.
"Really? People will do anything, won't they? It took a lunatic god to create our tribe. Let me think." He put on a frown more of puzzlement than concentration. "All right. Nathaniel had one child, Jane. She would be my mother's cousin but was way younger than Mom. Younger than me, even. She was a ferociously wicked, precocious six-year-old last time I saw her. She might've looked like this at eighteen." He indicated the drawings of the woman. "She'd be in her fifties, now."
We had an old woman in the mix, though based on nothing solid I guessed she would be older than that. "Could she have produced children who looked like their ancestors?"
Algarda shrugged. "Possibly. I don't know much about those people. We never had a lot to do with them. They weren't good people." He shot me a sudden, narrow look, maybe reading something into my question. "As far as I know, their line died out during my first tour." He looked at the artwork more closely, appreciating what Penny had captured. "The man even has the scars Nathaniel had." He looked hungry when he considered Penny's drawings.
He was deeply uncomfortable when our gazes met again. "Are you some kind of diabolical facilitator?"
"Excuse me?"
"Last time the Algardas got into trouble you were digging up worms. Here you go again."
Morley interjected, "The worms were there, begging to be dug. Be grateful Garrett was manning the shovel."
Algarda was a hard guy. He tried laying a hard look on Morley. Morley took no notice. Algarda said, "You're right. There's probably some serious behind-the-scenes rumbling going on at the top of the Hill. This could even tie in to some odd questions I've been asked lately, by people I never expected to visit my new place."
He did not explain. He did say, "I'll dig into a couple of old family legends." He turned toward the doorway.
Singe did not move. She looked to me for advice. I nodded, but said, "I'm supposed to tell you to go straight to the place in Elf Town from here."
He frowned. "For who?"
"The Windwalker."
He gave me the hard-eye but then just nodded and turned to follow Singe. She returned from the door to say, "I don't think he is happy with you."
"My heart is broken. Was his mother involved last time we had some excitement with his people? A couple of old crows got themselves dead, if I remember."
"I do not recall. I will look it up." Someone knocked. "That will be Mr. Tharpe."
"Have you started reading minds, too?"
"No. That would be crippling around you two. I saw him coming up the street when I let Mr. Algarda out." She went to open up.
Morley said, "We're inching toward something."
"Yes. And it might involve the undead or zombies after all."
74
Tharpe rolled in and crashed onto a folding chair. "Damn! This cold air feels good."
"It hot out there?"
"Working on getting there. And I need to shed about twenty-five pounds. Shit. Look at you, up on your hind legs and everything, Dotes."
I said, "Once we weaned him off the poison he came back fast. Next week he'll be able to make it to the front door with only one rest stop."
"You better watch out for the little girl, then. He'll have her giggling and squealing like a piggy in some dark corner."
Once upon a time Morley would have joined the game. Now he just scowled. "I'm a one woman man, 'Head."
Tharpe said, "Singe, honey, my dogs are worn down to the ankles. You want to take a look out front and see how big that flock of flying pigs is? Take one a them Amalgamated umbereller thing-jobbies along in case they got the flying dyer-rear." He snickered at his own wit.
I chuckled, too.
Morley tried but only managed to look grim.
Saucerhead continued, "Ah, gotcha. A health issue, that woman being involved."
Maybe a real health issue. Morley looked physically uncomfortable. I asked, "You all right? You need something?"
"I've been pushing it too much. I'm starting to feel it."
"Singe, I don't think he's ready to do without his angels." I hadn't seen any ratwomen today.
"I'll make sure they're here tonight."
"Good on you."
She asked, "Why don't we ask Mr. Tharpe what he's doing here? That might prove interesting."
Saucerhead said, "Mr. Tharpe was hoping somebody would bring him a mug so he could relax while he was telling his story."
I asked, "You need musical accompaniment? I saw a mandolin somewhere the other day, when we were salting the windows. It was short two strings, though."
Singe made a growling noise.
Maybe that was enough grab-assing around. "There's a problem, 'Head. The beer barrel ran dry. Dean is out trying to find Jerry right now."
"I guess I can wait."
Singe growled even louder.
"Whatever happened to that sweet little ratgirl you brung home a few years ago, Garrett?"
Singe told him, "She spent those years around crude human men. Please do explain why you came here. Besides the obvious."
She bruised Tharpe's feelings with that, not something easy to do. He knew she was calling him a moocher. Which he was, often enough, but not the obnoxious kind you want to bang on the head with a shovel. Usually you wanted to help, gently, because Saucerhead is a good guy blessed with a plentiful supply of minor bad luck.
I told him, "You've been bubbling. You've been threatening to tell us an interesting story. So how about it?" I glanced at Singe. I had no idea what he had been asked to do.
Singe shrugged. She didn't know, either. And Saucerhead wasn't talking. He did, in fact, seem confused.
He asked, "He's really asleep? The Dead Man, I mean."
"He really is. He'd be snoring like Playmate if he was among the breathing."
"Damn! I figured he'd plunk in there and get what he wanted before it went away."
Getting exasperated, I snapped, "Just do it the old-fashioned way! I'll give him the word when he wakes up."
"Oh. Yeah. That'd work, wouldn't it? So what it is, he wanted me to prowl around the costume shops in the theater district."
TunFaire did not have a theater district as such. Theaters were scattered across midtown, with others downtown. A few smaller venues were out in the neighborhoods. The World was four long blocks from its nearest competitor. The support shops, costume makers and set builders, were concentrated in a patch near the geographic center of the big name play-houses. And that was what Saucerhead meant.
"Costume shops," I mused.
"Yeah. Himself charging in on things from an unexpected angle. Instead of hunting a girl who wears tight black leather and spiffy wigs, find out who makes her outfits. Find out who whipped up them ugly gray wool suits and goofy helmets for the zombie brunos."
"Clever," I admitted, thinking we needed a neologism for the patchwork reanimated baddies who hung out inside the wool and weird wooden helmets.