Mew is for Murder Page 6

  There was a third story, too: the counselor’s unexplained departure on the heels of the fire—and the subsequent investigation into both—had seriously upset several of the residents, and their temporary displacement while Greenleaf House was repaired disturbed their fragile equilibrium still further. The writer had done his homework on the treatment of mental illness. If this was the same Ethan, it was a pity that he was leaving news. But if it was, I really would have to share my contacts with him. Despite the residents’ conditions—and despite Ethan’s griping about how his editors mangled his prose—he’d managed to draw coherent portraits of them, and had clearly spent time with them. Incorporating additional input from medical sources, he’d explained how two had withdrawn into themselves and were hospitalized in near catatonic states. One, Douglas Helmhold, had become severely agitated and then gone AWOL, walking away from the unlocked ward without a word to his doctors or any of the other patients, at least to any who could talk. He’d been missing for close to a week, long enough for the drugs to wear off and his psychosis to come back full force, when he was finally picked up by the cops, rambling and unresponsive, on the Cambridge Common. It took nearly two weeks in Cambridge General’s psychiatric ward before he was balanced enough to be released, first to a family member and then to the temporary shelter that had taken in the Greenleaf House’s other residents.

  So this was the “problem” that Dougie had had a little while ago, the reason Lillian had brought her son back home for a few days. Between the fire and the hospitalization, she’d probably seen her home—the old house they’d once shared—as the safest place for him. It was certainly better for his agitated mind than some unfamiliar temporary housing, and I could see why she wanted him there while Greenleaf House was being restored. But given the shape Dougie had probably been in when Lillian had brought him home, it was no wonder the neighbor, prim as she was, had been unhappy. My instinct was to dismiss her concerns. Any woman who disliked cats deserved to be shaken up a bit, but I had to be fair. She might have been truly afraid, made nervous by Dougie’s strangeness. She wouldn’t have been the first neighbor to complain when a mentally ill child came home.

  Maybe the conflict had been unavoidable. Ethan had certainly understood it, the visceral reaction that supported the “not in my backyard” stance, and had used his illustrations well to demonstrate what had become a truism of mental health: that people with diseases like schizophrenia are much more likely to be the victims of violence, theft, and fraud than they are to perpetrate them, no matter how many Hollywood “psychos” hack up starlets on the silver screen. The missing monies at Greenleaf House—still unaccounted for two months later—proved his point.

  But I’d done enough reporting for the Mail’s health section to know the darker side of the story as well, and that gave me a grudging sympathy for prim Patti. Although advocates for the mentally ill didn’t like to admit it, not everyone who had a mental illness cooperated in their own treatment. There were many reasons for people to stop taking their drugs. Delusions, which were often part of the illness, convinced people that they were “all better,” a sure sign that their last dose of halperidol or fluphenazine was wearing off. Paranoia, another symptom, often made the best intentions of doctors or family members suspect. Sometimes it was a simple dislike for the powerful psychotropic drugs’ many side effects, which could range from dry mouth, stiffness, and dizziness to the weight gain and nervous tics that marked the longtime antipsychotic user. And as good as the new treatments were—so-called “miracle drugs” like clozapine and risperidone—when the patients stopped the daily pills or medicated syrup, when they ducked the monthly injection, the story changed. Those who didn’t comply with their treatment could be dangerous. Although advocacy groups tried to stress the positive, statistics showed that unmedicated people with mental illnesses did get violent. They did shove people under subways and go on shooting sprees. Part of the tragedy was that, often, no meanness was involved. Maybe a loving, but ill adult son had battered his mom because he thought she’d been taken over by demons. Maybe he saw flames shooting out of her and wanted to put them out. Whatever, it happened. And the victims, most often, were family members.

  Could Dougie have killed his own mother? It was possible. Even if he’d not meant to harm her, if it had been some kind of horrible accident, the violence—the sight of his mother lying there—might have scared him into hiding. If he’d walked away from a hospital once, there was no reason he couldn’t again, and clearly even when he wasn’t at his best he knew his way back to his mother’s place. Here, he could easily blend in among Boston’s many homeless, sleeping by the river now that the weather had warmed up and huddling by the library’s heating grates if the frost came back. I made a mental note to locate him and to get some kind of sense of whether or not such wanderings were common; perhaps a call to the Greenleaf House would suffice. But the hour was getting late, and I had paying work to take care of first. I had time only to heat some soup before the Wednesday night showcase opened. Musetta joined me at the table, purring on my lap as I stroked her with one hand and tried not to drop hot mushroom-barley on her. She was so trusting, I found I wanted to protect her from everything. Especially after all she’d been through.

  With an effort, I placed her on the sofa, and she grunted softly, as if she disapproved.

  “Sorry, kitty, time to earn the kibble,” I told her and watched her curl into a neat circle before I stepped out into the night.

  Chapter Six

  I always get lost in Jamaica Plain. The maze of one-way streets and missing signs means I have to allow twice as much time to find anything in this funky urban neighborhood as I do at home. I know JP residents who feel the same way about Cambridge. Situated on opposite sides of Boston, we each had retained a bit of countercultural spirit, in part because of our tiny and inaccessible maze of winding streets. But this kinship didn’t help much as I found myself for the third time driving over the trolley tracks to find myself facing the vegetarian restaurant that Rick had loved. My mood wasn’t helped by memory, either of him or the tasteless tofu stir fries I’d endured, and I was settling into an angry funk when suddenly an SUV pulled out right in front of me. I slammed on the brakes, honked, and saw it. The SUV had vacated that rarity, a legal parking space. And right beyond it was the Central Café, my destination for the evening.

  I zipped my Toyota into the vacancy, double-checking that I’d locked it—this wasn’t my neighborhood, after all—and walked up to the café. Like so many of the more fun, funky businesses in these outlying neighborhoods, the café seemed to have grown through accretion, to have evolved as the neighborhood had changed. Undoubtedly a pub in its first incarnation, its small windows had been knocked out for a friendlier glass front that had probably boasted lots of ferns ten years ago. These days, it boasted a menu, taped to the glass above the brass railing, with a bill of fare that recalled the Caribbean rather than Dublin. Inside, however, the pub layout dominated: a long wooden bar ran down the left side of the room, with tattered vinyl booths on the right. A barkeep of an age to remember how to pull a pint with just enough head was doing his job beautifully, delivering what looked like a very honest drink to the single diner at the bar, a man in a blue cableknit sweater whose unfolded newspaper almost concealed what smelled like a bowl of Jamaican pepper-pot stew before him. I regretted my meager dinner as a whiff of spice and fish broth reached me, and continued on to the back room, where the music would be starting soon.

  The back room, which actually ran parallel to the long bar, had been set up as a restaurant, and a few couples and one group of friends were already seated at the little tables, made up nice with white cloths. Carole, the organizer, had dragged one of the tables over to the doorway. She’d be taking the low cover—three dollars, her sign said—in a few minutes. Me she waved right in, and I hung around as she counted her singles into the cash box, waiting to ask for more details about the music nights.

  The acoustic café
, as she had dubbed it, had long been a dream of hers. As a denizen of the club scene, she knew there were a lot of musicians out there who longed for a quieter outlet, someplace on the side where they could try out songs with just a guitar or pay tribute to a blues or folk influence from their past. Nothing too high profile would be necessary; this would be for the musicians and their friends as much as the fans. And nothing could be planned on the weekends: those nights were reserved for the bands—and the paying gigs. And so she’d started this Wednesday night series three weeks before, promising the restaurant owner that it would bring in more diners and offering the musicians whatever the door came to. Thus far, it seemed promising. Word of mouth among the musicians and neighborhood was bringing in more people each week. More important to my purposes, nobody had written about it yet. If I could get Tim to run my piece by next Wednesday, I’d be credited with discovering the outlet, and it couldn’t hurt Carole’s promise to build up business either.

  Carole gave me the rundown on who would be playing that night: among them a rockabilly guitarist who wanted to try out some country blues and a singer who had a fondness for torch songs. I took a place close beside her, intending to observe the audience as well as the performers, and watched as people, first singly and soon in a small queue, lined up for the tables and mismatched chairs in front.

  That was my plan, anyway, and I made a few notes that would later help me describe the scene. But as I was writing a piano started playing, skating over the keys in an almost random pattern. A low, soft voice started singing soon after, settling the piano into its chords, and I found myself transfixed.

  “If I could read your mind,” sang the voice, sweet and slightly flat, bringing a blues touch to the jazzy sound of her song. “I’d know better where the danger lies…” On she sang, a song of disillusionment and love. I craned my head to catch a glimpse of who was making this magic and saw the raven-tressed singer of a local goth band. Her lips were outlined in their customary black, matching the kohl-rimmed eyes she had trained on a space beyond her listeners; she was singing one of her band’s hits, a staple of Boston college radio. In this setting, though, the angry volume of the rock version had been replaced by a contemplative resignation. Her fingers played over the keyboards, filling the space usually occupied by a guitar solo with intricate variations. I leaned in to listen.

  “Theda, Theda Krakow, is that you?” I looked up at a blue sweater, the solitary diner from the bar, and recognized the detective from the day before.

  “Bill, uh, Detective Sherwin?” Out of what must have been his regulation on-duty jacket and tie, he looked younger and more relaxed.

  “It’s Sherman. But call me Bill,” he smiled into a big wide grin and then ducked his head, as if to hide it. Maybe it was that broken nose. “What brings you across the river to darkest JP? Had you heard about Carole’s acoustic experiment?”

  “I’m writing about it, actually.” Coming back to my senses from the music-induced high, I realized that here was a patron I could interview. “Could I ask you a few questions?”

  “Turning the tables, huh? Sure. Can I buy you a drink, or are you on duty?” I assured him that the journalistic discipline wasn’t that strict and let him get me one of those perfectly poured pints before the interrogation began.

  “So what brings you here?” I asked him, once we’d both settled in at my table. “Do you come here often?” The heat rose up my neck and we both laughed at the line, but he took it straight.

  “Matter of fact, I do. I live around the corner and up the hill and I’ve been coming here for dinner ever since they got Charles in the kitchen. He does a pepper pot that will warm you even in February. Do you like spicy food?”

  I love it, and told him so, but I wanted to keep the conversation on him. Between pauses to listen to the music, I learned that he was one of the regulars Carole had confided in. Although he was basically a jazz fan—“Monk, Miles, and Mingus!”—he’d been coming to the Wednesday showcases since the start, at first in support of Carole’s plans and now, he admitted with that shy smile again, because he’d been won over by the quality of the music. His one regret—he leaned toward me with a conspiratorial air and lowered his voice—was that my story would bring too many tourists in.

  “I want the series to be successful. But I want it to stay a neighborhood secret, too.”

  “That’s a great kicker,” I told him. “Look for that quote at the end of the story.” I reached for my bag to stow my pad and move along to the next interview. But he must not have noticed because he started asking me questions. How was I doing? What, besides this story, was I up to?

  I found it hard to believe a cop would be so concerned with a witness. But then I’d never been the one to find a body before.

  “I’m okay,” I told him. “You know, I checked on those cats, the ones at Lillian’s house, and they’re doing well, too. None of them have had to be euthanized, at least not right away. They’ll all get a chance to be adopted.”

  “That’s a relief.” The room had quieted down to a soft buzz between performers. “There were some fine looking animals in that bunch.”

  “Are you a cat man?” I found the idea amusing.

  “Yes, I guess I am.” He seemed to consider my question seriously. “I wasn’t originally, you know. I grew up thinking that a dog was the proper pet to have. But then, a few years ago, I had a girlfriend who had four cats. It was kind of a ‘love me, love my cats’ situation. Truth is, when that ended I missed the cats more than I missed her.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m not seeing anyone now.”

  That flush returned. “I meant the cats. Do you have a cat now?” I didn’t want to imagine what he must think of me.

  “Oh no, no cats.” He was chuckling. “I never got around to getting a cat of my own.”

  “When the timing is right, the kitty appears.” I paraphrased my favorite zen koan at him and he seemed to appreciate it, not hiding his smile this time.

  “You could even adopt one of Lillian’s in a few days,” I suggested, seeing a way to save at least one of those lovely felines.

  “Well, first we have to see if there’s an heir who wants them,” said Bill, and I remembered.

  “There is an heir! Dougie. Do you know about him?”

  “The mentally ill son? Yeah, we found some paperwork and the department has contacted him, or been trying to, anyway. I wouldn’t count on him saving the day, however. Legally, he may be the heir, but I don’t think he’ll be able to take the cats. I don’t even think he’ll be able to take over the house, and it will probably end up sold for taxes. The last records we have show him at some kind of permanent halfway house for people with schizophrenia, and there’s a question of competence, in a legal sense. I haven’t followed up on that end personally, but we have people looking into it. And the residence may take one of the cats as a mouser.” He looked pleased at this last bit. “So how do you know about Doug? As I recall, you’d just barely met Lillian.”

  “Violet told me about him,” I said, and as I did, everything she’d told me flooded back. Her declarations about Lillian’s competence, the medic-alert necklace, and her conviction that the woman had been murdered.

  “I went over there this morning and she was going through boxes,” I started to explain. “She’s convinced…”

  “Whoa. Back up.” Bill was sitting up in his seat now, beer forgotten. “Who is this Violet person and how did she come by permission to ‘go through’ the deceased’s possessions?”

  “She’s another neighbor and a friend of Lillian’s,” I explained. “She works in the local coffeehouse, but she used to come by and help Lillian with the cats. She’d cover when Lillian took the bus to go visit Dougie.”

  “And was she gathering food or materials for the cats, when you dropped by?” His tone was inquisitorial now. The music, which had started up again, forgotten.

  “Well, no. She was going through boxes of papers and books.” What exa
ctly was she hoping to find, I wondered? I’d not thought to ask. “But what’s important is what she told me. She’s convinced that Lillian was murdered.”

  Bill paused. He looked at me for a long moment and not with the shock or surprise that I’d have expected after I dropped that particular bombshell. It felt instead like he was appraising me, and I sat up straighter as a result.

  “She says that Lillian wore one of those medic-alert necklaces. You know, the ones that let you call an ambulance if you fall?” I figured it would be best to get to the hard evidence first.

  “Theda, slow down a moment.” He raised a hand, as if to stop traffic, and I shut up. “Now, how do you know this Violet?”

  “I just met her at the house. But I’ve seen her before. She serves me my coffee almost every day.”

  “And do you always trust everyone you’ve just met?” He couldn’t be more than a few years older than me, but his tone was definitely that of a teacher or older brother now. “This Violet may be a perfectly nice young woman, but she shouldn’t have been there. Animal Control is responsible for those cats now, and it sounds like you know that they’re perfectly good at their job. And the house, legally, is in the care of the city until the probate is decided. That’s a legal distinction, but it is practical too. We can’t allow looters, even looters who may have—I repeat, may have—known the victims. Especially in a case like this, where there’s an elderly person who collected lots of junk, if not cats, there are always rumors of hidden riches, stories that all the junk was covering up buried treasure, and what not. They’re never true, but it doesn’t matter. Violet should not have been there.”

  “Maybe she was looking for evidence or a lead.” I might not have known Violet for long, but I did trust her. There was something open and honest about her face, even with the nose stud. “She really does believe Lillian was murdered.”