“Although?” Max prodded.
Puma looked at me. “You know how some men can just . . . make you uncomfortable? Because they stand too close when they’re talking to you, or keep touching you when there’s no reason to?”
“Yes. I know.” What woman didn’t?
“It was like that. It was never threatening, but it was . . .”
“Intrusive?” I suggested.
She nodded. “I hardly knew Mr. Livingston, and I didn’t see him often. Sometimes at a special event at the foundation, or once when he came to see Biko compete in a tournament. That kind of thing. But when I did see him, the way he looked at me . . . Well, I always wound up, oh, checking my neckline, thinking maybe it was too low or that my bra must be showing. You know the sort of look that I mean?”
“I do. I get that look from some of the wiseguys when I’m waiting tables at Bella Stella.” Since they tipped me well, and I needed the money, I put up with it; I had to be practical. And since Martin Livingston’s generosity was so important to the Garland family, Puma had to be practical, and so she had put up with it, too. I said, “But that kind of thing seems a lot more reprehensible coming under the guise of philanthropy.”
“Oh, the philanthropy was genuine,” Puma said quickly. “He really was a good man in many ways. He cared very deeply about Harlem and the African-American community here, and he did a lot of good. In other ways, though . . .” She shrugged. “Well, everyone has their flaws, and at least his weren’t cruel or destructive. Just, uh . . .”
“Sleazy?” I suggested.
“I was going to say rambunctious.”
“Oh, I think Esther nailed it,” Jeff said. “Sleazy.” He had his own flaws, but rampant promiscuity and ogling women to the point of making them uncomfortable had never been among them. And I could see that the idea of the old man pestering Puma bothered him. I recognized the signs of Jeff’s attraction, having long ago been a recipient; he was definitely drawn to Puma.
An interesting dilemma, considering how uncomfortable he seemed to be with her religion.
Then again, I was a secular Jew interested in a practicing Catholic who thought I might be a dangerous lunatic. So I should probably eschew snarkiness about other people’s love lives.
Turning my thoughts resolutely away from the cop who wouldn’t date me, I said, “And being filthy rich probably made it easier for Martin to indulge in his, er, hobby.” After all, more women would fool around with a sixty-year-old billionaire than with a regular joe of the same age. That was the way of the world.
“Like I said, he had a reputation for that kind of thing.” Jeff said to Max and me, “I think I told you that Catherine was his third wife? Well, they say his first wife got tired of his philandering, so she left quietly in exchange for a huge settlement. The second wife supposedly knew what she was getting into and looked the other way. I guess there are compensations if your cheating spouse is rich and important. But then his hot and heavy affair with Catherine turned into the real thing, and so he left his wife for her. And that divorce, they say, was
really
expensive.”
“I don’t like gossip,” Puma said with a frown.
“I do,” I said shamelessly. “When did he marry Catherine?”
“The wedding was six years ago,” said Puma.
“And two years ago,” I said, “he died and made her a wealthy widow.” I wondered whether Catherine counted herself bereaved or lucky.
“Well, she’s a lot wealthier than any of us, certainly,” Jeff said, “but not nearly as wealthy as his two exwives.”
“Oh?” That seemed odd.
“He was, you know, a
philanthropist
by the time she married him. So his fortune’s all tied up in the foundation and managed by the board of directors.”
“You mean that Catherine didn’t get anything?” I asked.
“According to the grapevine at the time . . .” Jeff smiled apologetically at Puma, who was again frowning with disapproval. “She got their penthouse, personal possessions, and some money. Everything else went to the foundation.”
“I heard she’s selling the penthouse.” Puma clapped a hand over her mouth, as if startled that this bit of gossip had popped out. Then, looking sheepish, she added, “They say she can’t keep it up on the money he left her.”
“I was at their place once for a fund- raising party, talking to rich guests about my work at the foundation,” Jeff said. “Just the property taxes on that penthouse would probably be enough to feed Haiti for a month.” He added to me, “Martin was generous, but not self-sacrificing. He liked living large.”
I recalled something else Jeff had told us back at the foundation. “You mentioned that Mambo Celeste took a long time to accept Catherine?”
He nodded. “You bet.”
“The mambo doesn’t really like, uh . . .” Puma paused awkwardly.
“White people. We know,” I said. “Though she seems to like Max.”
“I tried to establish a rapport with her,” he said modestly to Puma.
“To give Catherine credit,” said Jeff, “she patiently put up with rebuffs from Celeste for a long time.”
“Because of her interest in Vodou,” said Puma. “I guess she thought they’d have a lot in common. But Dr. Livingston’s approach is . . . you know, so academic. So dry. She can talk all day about what we believe, but I don’t think she can really
understand.
”
“Celeste got less rude after the wedding. Maybe Martin put his foot down,” said Jeff. “Or maybe Celeste just figured the marriage meant Catherine was there to stay, like it or not.”
“They seem friendlier since he passed away,” Puma said. “I think the mambo feels some compassion for Dr. Livingston now, since they’re both childless widows.”
“Oh, come on,” Jeff said. “Celeste’s husband didn’t die, he left her. It was years ago, but everyone knows about it.”
“
She
likes to call herself a widow,” Puma said primly. “I try to respect that.”
It was not difficult to imagine why a spouse might have left the sour-tempered, snake-wielding Vodou priestess. I exchanged a glance with Max and saw the same thoughts written on his expression. But we kept our mouths shut.
“Anyhow, I think Celeste’s just being practical,” said Jeff. “The board of directors manages the money and makes the major decisions, but they don’t pay attention to the daily operations or care about the hiring and firing. Celeste must know that if she’s unfriendly to Catherine, now that for all practical purposes Catherine’s the boss, then there are plenty of other voodoo priests and priestesses who’d probably be happy to work at the foundation in her place.”
It was clear from Puma’s expression that she didn’t like this ungenerous interpretation of the mambo’s behavior, but she evidently also didn’t have a good enough argument against it to say anything.
“Did your houngan work there, too?” Max asked Puma.
“No, he was always too busy serving his own clients.” She explained to Jeff and me, “It’s like serving parishioners, except that since there’s no official church or salary, people pay their mambo or houngan for help, if they can afford to offer something.” Then she continued, looking at Max, “He also used to spend part of almost every year in Haiti even before he moved back there after the earthquake. But Mambo Celeste was here all year round, and the foundation is where she focused her efforts.”
The front door of the shop opened, and we all turned to see Biko enter. He had an unusually long athletic bag slung over his back; I supposed his swords were in there.
“Finally!” his sister said. “Where have you been?”
He flipped over the standard placard that hung on the front door so that people approaching the shop would see a CLOSED sign in the window. Then he locked the door.
“What are you doing?” Puma demanded. “I’m not closed!”
“You are now,” Biko said, joining us all near the cash register. “We have to talk, and we definitely don’t want to be overheard.”
Studying the young man, Max said, “Something has happened, hasn’t it? Something that delayed you.”
Biko nodded. “A cop showed up at the foundation. He was coming downstairs when I was leaving. He’d been in Dr. Livingston’s office, talking to her. And he zeroed in on me as soon as he saw me. I think it was the swords that attracted his attention,” he said with a puzzled look. “Anyhow, he flashed his badge and asked a lot of questions. It took some time.”
“Oh, no.” I wiped a hand wearily across my face. “Was his name Lopez?”
“I didn’t catch his name,” Biko said. “But he did look Latino.”
“About six feet tall, slim, black hair, blue eyes?” I said. “Really good-looking?”
“Really
tired
looking,” Biko said. “Like he hadn’t been to bed. But I guess girls would call him good-looking. Anyhow, yeah. That’s him.” He frowned at me. “You know him?”
“Detective Connor Lopez,” I said with resignation, wishing I hadn’t gotten him involved in this. I’d really had no choice at the time, but now that we were talking about, oh, zombies and baka and bokors, I had a feeling that I was going to regret having called on him for help last night.
“
Connor
Lopez?” Jeff said. “Okay, who wants to go out on a limb and guess how he got blue eyes?”
Puma asked, “What did he want, Biko?”
With a sharp glance at me, Jeff added, “Yeah, why was the
really good-looking
cop asking questions at the foundation?”
Biko took a deep breath as his gaze swept our faces. “Darius Phelps’ grave has been vandalized, and his body is missing.”
11
I
felt a combination of shock, revulsion, and doomed inevitably as I absorbed Biko’s statement. Then I asked, “Lopez told you this?”
“The cop? Yeah.”
“And what did you tell him?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
I said in surprise, “He didn’t ask about last night?”
“Oh, he asked me
lots
about last night,” said Biko. “I told him I was home in bed. And that my sister could back me up on that.”
“Biko!” his sister cried, her volume rising enough to make me wince. “You lied to a police detective?”
“Don’t give me a hard time, Puma.” Biko looked defensive. “I couldn’t exactly say, ‘I was out hunting the baka that ate my dog, officer,’ now could I?”
“Hmm.” Puma looked perturbed. “No, I suppose not.”
“What else did Lopez say?” I asked.
“He mostly asked me a lot of questions about Mr. Phelps.”
“What kind of questions?”
They turned out to be pretty much the same kind of questions that I had asked Catherine in her office. I assumed that Lopez had posed those question to her, too, before encountering Biko.
“So I just kept saying that I don’t know anything about Mr. Phelps’ death—which is true—and that I was at home and in bed last night.” Biko leaned against the counter and let his shoulders slump. “But I could tell he didn’t believe me about that part.”
“Man, you need to learn to lie better,” Jeff said critically.
“No, we must not blame young Biko if Detective Lopez was unconvinced by his answers,” said Max. “He is not an easy man to dissuade. And although he is pursuing an erroneous theory, I do not for a moment suppose he will
cease
to pursue it until he is satisfied that the matter is resolved.”
“What theory? What pursuit?” Jeff said. “How do you and Esther know this guy?”
“I propose,” said Max, “that we proceed with an orderly narrative of last night’s events, then move on to discussing relevant theories, avenues of attack, and possible solutions.”
“Good idea,” said Puma. “And since I guess I’m closed now, why don’t we go sit in the storage room in back? There’s a table and some chairs in there.”
“Esther and I can’t stay, Puma.” Jeff looked at the clock on the wall. “We have to go visit someone in the hospital.”
“That’ll have to wait,” I said.
“But we’re already late,” he pointed out.
“For God’s sake, Jeff,” I snapped. “Sucking up to Mike Nolan for ten minutes is not as important as figuring out what to do about the strange things that Biko and I have seen!” I added to the others, “But before we do anything else, we need to order some food.”
Biko gave me an incredulous look. “I’ve just found out—from a
cop
, no less—that no one knows where Mr. Phelps’ three-week-old corpse is. And you saw him walking around Harlem last night. Do you really want to
eat
now?”
“I also saw him get maimed by the baka,” I pointed out crankily. “And, yes, I want to eat now.”
“Do I have to stay for this conversation?” Jeff asked me. “I can already tell I’m going to hate every part of it.”
“You can leave whenever you like,” I said, knowing he wasn’t going anywhere. As long as the prospect of meeting
D30
’s lead actor loomed on the horizon, nothing short of an attack by crazed gargoyles would get rid of Jeff—the thought of which reminded me of the attack that Biko had witnessed. I said to the young fencer, “Can you describe the victim you rescued Monday night?”