"This is an old cemetery, Jack. Most of these people's relatives are themselves dead."
He crossed himself as if it hurt to do so. Said
"Here we are."
Pointed at a lonely grave rimmed in very low, but neatly trimmed hedges. The headstone was an unassuming block of gray polished granite with the top beveled. The inscription was on the surface of the bevel beneath the Star of David.
ANNE BAUM
BELOVED DAUGHTER, MOTHER, ANGEL
BORN JAN 3, 1960 DIED JUNE 1, 1988
Atop the grave itself were the windblown stems of a hundred dead roses and several grimy statuettes and plaques. One of the filthy busts was a small white, blue, and black porcelain bust of Edgar Allan Poe.
"Do you know the writer K.T. Baum?"
"The mystery guy?" I asked.
"The same. This is his daughter's grave. Run down by a drunken driver."
"Jesus!" Funny how Jews from Brooklyn say Jesus all the time. "I have a daughter myself. I don't know what I would have done if-"
"Let's not think of it, Moe. Life is burden enough without the added weight of imagined sorrows."
"You're right, of course. So what are we doing here?"
"Baum is a friend. As I don't possess many, I treasure the ones I do."
"But that still doesn't explain-"
"Look at the grave."
I obliged. He lit up, lifting a heavy silver Zippo to the tip of a cigarette: the genie once again supplying his own magic smoke.
"These are the awards he's won, I take it."
Said
"Fella, you take it right."
I knelt down to get a closer look at the grave, my arthritic knees creaking like an old coffin lid. Now I noticed what Jack had hoped I would see.
"Something's missing." I pointed to a clothes iron-shaped depression in the grass atop the grave. "The cat?"
"The Silver Whisker. About yea big." Jack held his bony hands eight or so inches apart. "Of equal height and near twenty pound of silver."
"Why do you suppose the thief took the cat and not the others?"
Said
"Who can know the mind of a ghoul? Liked cats better than Poe. Wanted to melt down the silver, maybe."
"Maybe. Baum must be pretty old by now."
"Old and dying. Lung cancer's marking his days. Doctors said he should be dead going on two years now. Finally won that damn cat. Think the chase kept him above dirt. The thing had tasked him his whole career. Every award he'd ever won he dedicated to Anne, then placed it upon her grave. Now he can have his peace."
I considered that kind of peace as I was close to experiencing it myself. How much peace was there, I wondered, in endless sleep if you never woke up to appreciate it? I wondered if these were just the kinds of ruminations that drove ancient humans to create the gods that created them. I wondered if heaven was just waking up again? Old men do a lot of wondering.
Baum's house was a big old Victorian in the Ditmas Park section of Brooklyn, a block or two in from Beverly Road. Jack had assured me it would be fine to stop by the house to chat with the dying author.
"The jumble of medicines keep him up all hours. He'll enjoy the visit."
We were greeted at the door by an odd gray woman. What I mean to say is that she was both older and younger than her age. There was an underlying prettiness, almost girlishness beneath her sixty-ish years and silvery hair. And no amount of years could hide the burn of her green and gold-flecked eyes, but she carried herself and the weight of the world with her.
"Gilda Baum, meet Moe Prager."
Jack had told me in the car that Gilda, Anne's younger sister, had years ago appointed herself to the position of caretaker. Not only did she help manage her father's writing career, but had done nursing courses in order to help manage his medical care as well.
Her handshake was steel.
"He's upstairs waiting for you, Jack. He knew you'd come."
"I'll go have a word with him, Moe. Then you can come on up."
Gilda showed me into the library. It was an impressive thing to behold: handcrafted walnut bookshelves from the parquet floors to the twelve-foot-high cornice molding that rimmed the mural painted on the plaster ceiling. The mural was done in the pre-Raphaelite style. In it, a lovely woman with an imperfect nose, long white neck and cascades of red tresses floated down river on a raft of reeds. Her arms were folded across her ample white bosom, the hint of a nipple peeking through her long delicate fingers.
"That's Annie," Gilda said matter-of-factly. "Dad had it done the year she was killed."
"Beautiful."
"That she was. Let me show you Dad's other pride."
Gilda looped her arm through my crooked elbow and guided me to the other end of the library. There on display was a collection of old leather bound books and manuscripts in Lucite cases. I could make out some of the titles.
"It's a world class collection of Poe, O'Henry, Henry James …" she said proudly. "Annie loved O'Henry in particular. Any story with an ironic twist was meat for her. She was easily pleased."
There was an air of resentment in Gilda's voice, an understandable one. Tragic death makes giants of the mortal. I'm sure Baum had loved Anne before the accident, but because the love had turned unavoidably one-sided, he had made her into a kind of goddess. That couldn't have been easy for his other daughter. It must have been particularly difficult now with her father's impending death.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I've been rude. Can I get you something to drink?"
"Scotch on the rocks."
Her face lit up. She walked me into a room just off the library. It was an office of some sort and there was a lovely liquor cabinet against one wall.
"Dewars okay?" she asked.
"Perfect."
"This is my office," she said as ice clinked into the glasses.
"You write too."
"Yes, but not detective stories like Dad. I do more scholarly work."
She handed me the hand-blown tumbler. We toasted with a shrug and sipped.
"So, what do you make of the missing cat?"
"What do you mean 'What do I make of it?'" Gilda was almost defensive.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"
"No, no, I should apologize, Mr. Prager. It's been a rough several years with Dad and all. Frankly, there's never been an easy day for him since Annie was killed."
"I can only imagine."
"Let me go and check on Dad and Jack."
She scurried out of the room. I looked around, snuck a look at the ultra thin screen of Gilda's Apple. I also picked up the book she had left open on her daybed. I put the book back where I found it and headed back to where I had been standing when Gilda had left the room.
"They'll be only a few more minutes. Dad loves Jack. They met in Galway years and years ago, in '03 or '04. Jack had just lost a little girl of his own, I think. They were both feeding the swans down by the quay and seemed to hit it off."
"Gilda, do you mind if I tell you a story about my family?"
"No, go right ahead." The smile on her face belied the uneasiness in her voice.
"My dad was a failure in business and he equated that with being a failure as a father. I had an older brother, Aaron. Aaron was the best brother and such a devoted son, but his devotion to my dad was-"
"I'm sure this is all very interesting, Mr. Prager, but-"
"Moe."
"Moe then. But I really don't see what this has to do with-"
"Yes, you do, Gilda. You see that it has everything to do with the missing cat. I had a peek at your computer and your reading material. Humor an old man by letting me finish. So, as I was saying, Aaron's devotion to my dad became a quest of sorts. He spent much of his own life trying to convince my dad he hadn't been a failure at all. Even after my father had passed away, Aaron tried convincing him. The business Aaron and I owned, the one I now run with the kids and grandkids, is a manifestation of Aaron's futile quest. Your father's dying. Painting leaves on a vine or stealing a silver cat off your sister's grave won't save him. Let him go, Gilda. It's his time. It's almost mine."