Hard Road by Barbara D'Amato Page B
Authors: Barbara D'Amato
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Women Private Investigators, Chicago, Chicago (Ill.), Illinois, Oz (Imaginary place), Marsala; Cat (Fictitious character), Festivals
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magenta-and-pink butterflies popped into existence on several leaves. Then yellow highlights flickered along the edges of the vines.
"My goodness. That's great!"
He played around with colors for a while, turning some of the larger leaves bluer, augmenting the leaf veins, just doing riffs to impress me. Which was fine. But still, I was here for a reason.
I had a suspicion about one thing he mentioned. "I hate to change the subject, but you said earlier that 'somebody' thought everybody loves castles. Who was it?"
He shrugged his sharp shoulders, but I kept looking at him and finally he said, "Well, it was Jennifer. Oh, lord. Poor Jennifer."
"Yes. That was a terrible thing to happen."
He nodded. He looked genuinely sad. I said, "Mr. Taubman, do you know who killed her?"
"Of course not. I would have told the police if I did."
"Or who killed Tom Plumly?"
"No."
His bony face was not very expressive. But he shifted uneasily in his chair. All I could do was press him more. "Plumly was right there with you and Pottle and Mazzanovich. And then he ran away. Why?"
"I guess he wanted to see Barry." Taubman looked away from me.
"What had you been talking about?"
"Oh, the festival. What else? One of the food stands was doing something dangerous with its cooking fuel. And one had something inappropriate on its sign. Naked ladies. Pottle was all upset about it. As if kids are gonna care that you've got nude dancing girls on a banner! Probably love it."
Well, I had asked, but I also got the feeling he was trying to distract me.
"Did you stab Plumly?"
"Listen, Ms. Marsala. I realize your brother is in trouble. I sympathize with what you're going through. I understand that you're willing to be rude in order to get the job done. But I didn't kill Plumly or attack him or stab him or anything, and that's the last I'm going to say about it."
"Could he have stabbed himself?"
"Could he? I suppose anybody could . But I can't see why he would."
Nor could I. "What kind of a person was he?"
"Reasonably pleasant, I guess. Rather intelligent, really. Seemed to be interested in the festival's artistic elements, which was surprising. After all, he was an ex-cop. And he ran a security service." I reflected briefly on what choice words McCoo might utter if somebody told him a cop is not supposed to be interested in artistic elements. Then in a fit of shame I remembered that I, too, had been surprised that Plumly was an avid reader.
Taubman said, "He actually had a sense of what fun the festival could be." Rather grimly, he added, "Not everybody involved cared about that."
"Like who?"
"I don't want to bad-mouth anybody. There's been enough unpleasantness already."
Jeez, you could say that again.
11
I AM OZ, THE GREAT AND POWERFUL
It is just so great to be able to go home for lunch. Working freelance I don't make much money, but there are other benefits, like this. When I was working at That Big Important Newspaper, I routinely ate at my desk so that my supervisor could see I was working.
My shoulder ached worse. Time for aspirin and a sandwich.
Not time to call my mother.
As I mentioned, my apartment is not any bigger than a Chicago bus. No dining room. No office. The word processor lives on the kitchen table. And my roommate, the African grey parrot who is called Long John Silver— this is the parrot's name, and despite a recent problem, we're sticking with it— lives all over the apartment. Because the bird flies loose while I'm out, there are a few little cleanup chores. Also for reasons of sanitation, I leave the kitchen door closed when I'm out.
As a young bird, Long John had been owned by the captain of a Louisiana shrimp trawler. When the captain retired, he moved to Chicago, thinking there was no water here. Imagine his
"My goodness. That's great!"
He played around with colors for a while, turning some of the larger leaves bluer, augmenting the leaf veins, just doing riffs to impress me. Which was fine. But still, I was here for a reason.
I had a suspicion about one thing he mentioned. "I hate to change the subject, but you said earlier that 'somebody' thought everybody loves castles. Who was it?"
He shrugged his sharp shoulders, but I kept looking at him and finally he said, "Well, it was Jennifer. Oh, lord. Poor Jennifer."
"Yes. That was a terrible thing to happen."
He nodded. He looked genuinely sad. I said, "Mr. Taubman, do you know who killed her?"
"Of course not. I would have told the police if I did."
"Or who killed Tom Plumly?"
"No."
His bony face was not very expressive. But he shifted uneasily in his chair. All I could do was press him more. "Plumly was right there with you and Pottle and Mazzanovich. And then he ran away. Why?"
"I guess he wanted to see Barry." Taubman looked away from me.
"What had you been talking about?"
"Oh, the festival. What else? One of the food stands was doing something dangerous with its cooking fuel. And one had something inappropriate on its sign. Naked ladies. Pottle was all upset about it. As if kids are gonna care that you've got nude dancing girls on a banner! Probably love it."
Well, I had asked, but I also got the feeling he was trying to distract me.
"Did you stab Plumly?"
"Listen, Ms. Marsala. I realize your brother is in trouble. I sympathize with what you're going through. I understand that you're willing to be rude in order to get the job done. But I didn't kill Plumly or attack him or stab him or anything, and that's the last I'm going to say about it."
"Could he have stabbed himself?"
"Could he? I suppose anybody could . But I can't see why he would."
Nor could I. "What kind of a person was he?"
"Reasonably pleasant, I guess. Rather intelligent, really. Seemed to be interested in the festival's artistic elements, which was surprising. After all, he was an ex-cop. And he ran a security service." I reflected briefly on what choice words McCoo might utter if somebody told him a cop is not supposed to be interested in artistic elements. Then in a fit of shame I remembered that I, too, had been surprised that Plumly was an avid reader.
Taubman said, "He actually had a sense of what fun the festival could be." Rather grimly, he added, "Not everybody involved cared about that."
"Like who?"
"I don't want to bad-mouth anybody. There's been enough unpleasantness already."
Jeez, you could say that again.
11
I AM OZ, THE GREAT AND POWERFUL
It is just so great to be able to go home for lunch. Working freelance I don't make much money, but there are other benefits, like this. When I was working at That Big Important Newspaper, I routinely ate at my desk so that my supervisor could see I was working.
My shoulder ached worse. Time for aspirin and a sandwich.
Not time to call my mother.
As I mentioned, my apartment is not any bigger than a Chicago bus. No dining room. No office. The word processor lives on the kitchen table. And my roommate, the African grey parrot who is called Long John Silver— this is the parrot's name, and despite a recent problem, we're sticking with it— lives all over the apartment. Because the bird flies loose while I'm out, there are a few little cleanup chores. Also for reasons of sanitation, I leave the kitchen door closed when I'm out.
As a young bird, Long John had been owned by the captain of a Louisiana shrimp trawler. When the captain retired, he moved to Chicago, thinking there was no water here. Imagine his
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