In A Strange City

Chapter 14

Bolton Hill is one of those Baltimore neighborhoods that becomes a religion for its residents. Outsiders had been predicting its fall for as long as Tess could remember. In fact, the rumors of its imminent demise predated her birth, for the riots of ‘68 had led many to despair about the city’s future. But those feverish partisans who chose to put up with Bolton Hill’s inner-city indignities-the car break-ins, the burglaries, the theft of ornamental iron and lawn furniture, the occasional mugging on one’s doorstep-were rewarded with some of the most spectacular real estate in Baltimore, within walking distance of the symphony, the opera, and the upper reaches of downtown. Crow still kept an apartment on Park Avenue, although Tess couldn’t remember the last time he had actually spent a night there.

Jerold Ensor’s house was stunning even by the neighborhood’s high standards, a huge town house on John Street, crammed with antique wonders. Or so it appeared from Tess’s vantage point in the foyer, where she had been asked to wait fifteen minutes ago by the housekeeper who had answered her insistent ring. It wasn’t clear if she was being made to wait or if she had been forgotten completely.

Left with nothing else to do, Tess stared at herself in a huge ornate mirror-a mirror that had hung, according to a three-by-five card pinned next to it, in the room where Francis Scott Key had died. She wondered how such a piece of trivia affected the value of an item. Would a mirror from the room where he had been born be worth more or less? How did one authenticate such claims? She recalled Fuzzy Iglehart dragging out those ersatz stadium seats and smiled. Sometimes, it seemed as if everyone had Antiques Roadshow fever, the conviction that some priceless item was in their possession, if only they knew what it was.

As the minutes passed, she thought less about the mirror and more about her face. She had been harsh and not a little smug in her assessment of Gretchen O’Brien last night. Tess had turned thirty-one last August, which was far more shocking than thirty. Thirty-one cemented the idea that the numbers kept going up. Yet she couldn’t get too panicky about the fine lines around her eyes and the parentheses at her mouth. If the choice was between smiling and having a smooth, lineless mask of a face, she’d choose to smile and laugh, thank you very much. Kitty had gotten to her early about the importance of sunscreen, and her skin was in pretty good shape for someone who rowed and ran. It helped, too, keeping a little flesh on her bones. Most women didn’t understand that.

But the hair-she heard her mother’s voice in her head, for Judith always referred to Tess’s hair as if it were an object apart from herself, a recalcitrant pet that Tess could not tame: The Hair-should she cut it off? Was it unseemly to have long hair after thirty? She sensed there were rules about such things, unwritten ones that other women knew but so far had refused to share with her.

“Miss Monaghan?”

Jerold Ensor was a tall, cadaverous man with bloodhound-droopy features. His face was so sad Tess wondered if she had missed the news about some large-scale tragedy-an assassination, a war, a natural disaster, the imminent departure of the Orioles for Washington. With that face, Ensor should have been an undertaker or at least a professional pallbearer.

But the effect was undercut by his voice, a high tenor popping with Baltimore vowel sounds that he couldn’t quite suppress, although he seemed to be trying.

“My housekeeper brought me your card, said you wanted to talk to me about security in the wake of the break-in here some months back. I hope this isn’t your way of trying to sell me something.”

Yes, I’m using Tyner’s plan, she told her sniping conscience. What of it?

“No, I don’t represent a company, if that’s what you fear. But I am trying to expand my business by helping businesses and private residences assess their security needs.” She was bullshitting, but, as it often happened, her bullshit caught her fancy. Maybe she should set herself up as a security consultant. That could provide a nice little revenue stream. “Because I’m still trying to break into this area, I’m not selling anything yet. I’m interviewing those who have already been victims to see what I can learn about what works and what doesn’t.”

“My story isn’t a particularly interesting one-”

“I wish you’d let me be the judge of that.”

He seemed to be looking not at her but past her, at the reflection of her back in the mirror. “Should we have a seat in the parlor?”

The parlor, as Ensor would have it, was one of the most overdecorated rooms into which Tess had ever ventured, overwhelming the eye. The walls teemed with framed paintings, while bric-a-brac sprang from every possible surface, toadstools in a forest. It was like falling inside a kaleidoscope; one was too close to the pieces to discern the larger pattern. Slowly, small surprising details began to shake out. An old revolving metal postcard rack stood in one corner, filled with antique views of Baltimore and Maryland. A cigar-store Indian kept vigil from another corner, and next to him-could it be?-an old-fashioned drinking fountain was attached to the wall.

“It works,” Ensor said, following her gaze. “I bought it from the school district when they redid the old Polytechnic and made it into the administration building. I was a Poly boy, and I admit to a sentimental-perhaps I should say egotistical-yen for anything from my own past. The postcard stand was in a store where my family stopped for ice cream on Sunday drives, and the cigar-store Indian stood in my own great-uncle’s shop. I’m a collector, but I collect things only I care about.”

A glorious understatement, Tess thought, her eyes still dazzled by the room.

“I can’t help wondering,” she said, “how you would even know if anything was missing. Or how a burglar could choose what he wanted here. You have so many things, I would think a form of paralysis would set in.”

She also couldn’t help thinking how tempted Bobby Hilliard might be, if he stood in this room. He had stolen at least one item from the Pratt, if not more, and this town house was full of the sort of pretty-pretty things Daniel had said were his former colleague’s weakness.

“I’m afraid the burglar knew all too well what he wanted,” Ensor said. “My stereo, my video camera, and a television set in the kitchen. He was a strong fellow, I’ll give him that, hardworking and very methodical. It was almost a relief to have a professional at work, instead of someone who throws a rock through the window and reaches in to grab whatever is handy, like one of those Boardwalk crane games.” He paused as if he had been about to say something more, then laughed. “Actually, I have one of those too, upstairs. From Ocean City.”

“How did this burglar gain entry?”

“The back door was unlocked.” He offered this without apology and without embarrassment. What an idiot, Tess thought, then remembered her conversation with Tyner and felt guilty. No one deserved to be a victim.

“Did you have a security system?”

“I do now. I decided the third time was the charm. But, really, you’re not part of the Bolton Hill neighborhood until you’ve been burglarized at least twice. It’s sort of like joining the Tennis and Swim Club.”

“And all that was taken were electronics.”

“Yes. As I said, the things I collect have no value- except to me. You know, it’s something of a comfort, having things no one else would want.”

Tess had once based her whole life on a similar philosophy. Choose to be miserable, and no one else can make you unhappy. It hadn’t proved to be a satisfying way to live, but it seemed to be working for Ensor.

“Have the police mentioned to you that your burglary may be connected to other crimes?”

Ensor shifted in his seat. He seemed at once bored and wary. “Burglaries often are. People who steal keep stealing.”

“No, I was thinking about the attack on Shawn Hayes and the shooting at Poe’s grave.”

“What an interesting idea. Is it yours?”

Not ludicrous, not surprising, she noted. Just interesting.

“No. I believe it’s the police department’s. Has anyone there told you of this?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, with a tight little smile. “But they have asked me not to speak about it. To anyone. Not to the press and particularly, the homicide detective emphasized, not to a female private detective with her hair in a pigtail down her back.”

“Oh.”

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, until he resembled a praying mantis. “But I will tell you this much, for your own edification. I’m not gay. In fact, my three ex-wives will be happy to tell you how not-gay I am. So much for the hate-crime theory. Now, shall I call Rainer and tell him you were here? For that is what he asked me to do. Or would you like to offer a defense on your own behalf? I’m amenable to being persuaded.”

He was toying with her, enjoying her discomfort. What he didn’t know was that her discomfort was caused by the implicit sexual boast about his ex-wives. Really, sex with someone who looked like Jerold Ensor would qualify as necrophilia.

“I don’t think I can persuade you.”

“Ah, I am very susceptible to a woman’s charms. One could even say it’s my primary weakness.”

Did he really expect her to pout or plead? She would not have been surprised to find out that, somewhere in this overstuffed town house, Jerold Ensor had a collection of pinned butterflies in a glass case. Now it came to her why his house seemed so creepy: It reminded her of the Gnome King’s sitting room in her favorite Oz book, Ozma of Oz. There, all the items were really people and animals, transformed by the king into permanent objets d’art until a particularly bright chicken broke the spell. It was one of the most literal tales of possession that Tess had ever read, and it scared her more today than it had twenty years ago. She had learned from a man, now dead by his own hand, to be wary of people who took too much pleasure in owning things. They sometimes tried to own people as well.

“Did you know Bobby Hilliard?”

“Not that I know of. But I ate out a lot, perhaps he knew me. The police asked the same question. I understand the source of their interest. What’s yours?”

“I’m not sure,” Tess said honestly. Since the Pig Man’s visit to her office, she felt she had been drawn into a game of blindman’s bluff against her will and she was wandering, eyes covered, in a circle of snickering children. Everyone was in on the joke except her.

“Did you-” she began.

Ensor sat back in his chair, crossing his long legs, resting his narrow face on the tips of his index fingers. “I’m not supposed to talk to you, and I’m not going to unless you make this more fun.”

“I don’t think I want to know what your idea of fun is.” Without bothering to say good-bye, Tess left, her only backward glance for her reflection in the mirror that had borne witness to the death of Francis Scott Key. Really she was going to cut that damn braid off one day. Then how would anyone know her, how would she be described?

If Ensor had been warned to watch out for her, the second burglary victim, Arnold Pitts of Field Street, would be prepared as well. So what? At least Rainer would know she was thorough. Besides, B-and-E-victim number two couldn’t be anywhere near as creepy as Ensor. Stopped at a traffic light on Mount Royal, she checked the map and called her house, only to find Crow completely absorbed in his cabinet-stripping.

“I’ve got one more stop on my way home tonight,” she said. “I’m still trying to figure out why the cops think these things are connected.”

“Hmmm,” was all Crow said, although it was a very supportive “hmmm.” She wondered if the fumes were getting to him.

“What do you want to do for dinner?” She was being her worst passive-aggressive self, hoping Crow would volunteer that he had taken care of dinner, made a winter-suitable meal of, say, beef stroganoff and hot bread.

“I’m not really hungry,” he said, “so it’s up to you.”

Damn, wrong answer. “Okay, I’ll figure something out. It will probably involve cardboard containers.”

“Fine with me.” His voice, which had been absent-minded and dreamy, found a momentary focus. “Any more gifts from your secret admirer?”

“No. I guess we’ve broken up. He doesn’t call, he doesn’t write…”

“I’m not sure how I feel, knowing another man is giving my girl flowers.”

“How do you know,” Tess countered, “it’s a man?”

Crow had fallen back into his fume-induced reverie. “Do you think we should get funky with the kitchen cabinet handles, put on those brass starfish they have at Nouveau, or keep the original handles? They have a kind of retro charm.”

“I’m not having this conversation, I’m not having this conversation,” Tess chanted. “My parents talk like this. In fact, I am coming home tonight with the kind of food suitable for slathering bodies and we are going to have cheap, nasty sex and the only thing that will be off-limits is any discussion of home decor. You wanna talk drapery cords, it better be in the context of bondage. Okay?”

“You mean if I say your skin reminds me of that wonderful new synthetic material that you can’t distinguish from real marble, you’ll object?”

Laughing, she hung up on him, happy to be going home to flesh-and-blood Crow and sorry for any woman who had to tolerate the attentions of Jerold En-sor, the walking corpse.

The map book placed Field in the heart of lower Hampden, which mystified Tess. She was no snob, but this was an area where burglars were more likely to live than to plunder. She happened to know a high-placed lieutenant in a local crime ring had once lived along this stretch of Keswick, until his conscience had gotten the better of him and he turned his best friend in for murder. He had been able to leave his door unlocked, Tess remembered, and no one had ever dared to bother him.

She found the sign for Field Street, but it was a stretch of pavement shorter than most driveways, dead-ending into a vacant lot. After a quick look back at the map, Tess backtracked on Keswick, turning onto Bay Street, which appeared to go through.

Making a right-hand turn had never so transformed the world before. One minute, Tess was in the narrow dark ravine of Keswick, banked with row houses. But here the landscape was open, and the houses were small stone duplexes set back on large lots. Field Street was literally a field, she realized; that’s why it didn’t run through. She knew little about architecture, but she could tell such housing had to be a hundred, a hundred and fifty years old. The neighborhood had a rustic Brigadoon-like charm. It was the kind of place she would have wanted to live in if she had not found her cottage in the trees.

She parked outside Arnold Pitts’s house, dark and seemingly empty. Trouble beckoned, but she was determined to resist it. There was no gain, she told herself, in trying to get into that house. Then she would be Gretchen O’Brien, breaking and entering, and Rainer would finally have a reason to come down on her like a ton of bricks.

The strange thing was, she could almost see Rainer’s point of view as she sat here in the early dark, mulling her options. Why was she here? She had no client, no leads, only her own curiosity. She had begun her investigation for what seemed to be a logical, almost honorable reason: Find the mystery client and learn what he really wanted. The roses and the cognac had seemed to signal she was on the right track.

But maybe these tokens were really just handmade signs from Wile E. Coyote, advising the road runner to take the washed-out road up ahead. Sighing, she started her car’s engine and headed back down the block.

Idling at the corner, waiting to make the turn, she glanced back at the dark house in her rearview mirror. To her amazement, someone emerged from the rear, stopped to put a plastic bag in an old-fashioned metal garbage can, and then lugged the container to the curb. He made a comic silhouette, for he was not much taller than the can, and his arms were short pudgy things, barely long enough to reach past his own formidable stomach and hook onto the handles. He moved with tiny mincing steps, the way a woman in high heels walks on ice, although the sidewalks were clear and smooth, the weekend’s snow having melted within hours of falling.

I know that walk, Tess thought. I know that silhouette. She slammed her car into reverse, sliding into someone’s parking pad, and rolled down her window, calling out, “Arnold Pitts?”

At the sound of her voice-or perhaps it was his real name that startled him so-Arnold Pitts, the Pig Man, aka the Porcine One, aka John Pendleton Kennedy, dealer in fine porcelain, made the most fitting little squeal, threw his trash can in the street, and began trotting away as fast as his little legs would carry him.