Husbands And Lap Dogs Breathe Their Last by David Steven Rappoport Page A

supernatural was understandable in the centuries before the triumphs of the rational mind, but what was the fascination of the superstitious now? Wasn’t the universe, as understood empirically, mysterious enough?
     
     
    The next morning, Odin went off at his usual time in order to be at the unemployment office when it opened. Cummings got up early to make Odin breakfast. It didn’t improve Odin’s mood, but at least he was sent into the world with a full stomach.
    Cummings was washing the dishes when there was a polite but firm knock at the front door. One of Chicago’s finest flashed his badge and introduced himself as Officer Arnold Bailey.
    “You’re Cummings Flynn Wanamaker, right?”
    “Right.”
    “May I come in? I’d like to talk to you about the Hickok death.”
    “Certainly,” Cummings said, directing the visitor to the sofa. “You’re investigating it as a murder?”
    “I know your name. You’re that detective guy I read about in the paper, aren’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then you should know I can’t answer that question. I understand Ms. Hickok was speaking to a group called the Mathers Society when the fire broke out. How long have you been a member?”
    “I’m not a member. I’ve never attended a meeting before. I came with a friend, Luther Bannockburn. He wanted to attend out of curiosity. Also, he teaches music at a local college. Someone who gives a lot of money to his department is a member of the Society. Her name is Anunciación Hollingberry.”
    “Right,” Officer Bailey responded, implying he was familiar with the name. “Could you spell your friend’s name?”
    Cummings did. Officer Bailey asked for Luther’s contact information, which Cummings provided.
    “Did you know the deceased?”
    “No.”
    “Never met her before?”
    “Never.”
    “What about a man named Otto Verissimo?”
    “I know him.”
    “How do you happen to know him?”
    “He’s asked me to speak to him. He has some concerns about Ms. Hickok’s death.”
    “Just so I’m clear, you’re an amateur, not a licensed private detective, right?”
    “Right.”
    “I assume you know you can’t become a licensed private detective in this state unless you’ve worked in law enforcement?”
    “I’ve been meaning to research the requirements. I haven’t lived in the state very long,” Cummings said.
    “Just make sure you keep it informal, and don’t get in our business. Thank you for your time.” Officer Bailey handed Cummings his business card and headed for the door. “That’s all for now. We’ll be in touch if anything comes up.”
    As soon as Officer Bailey was gone, Cummings located online the statutes governing private detectives in Illinois. Officer Bailey was correct. If he pursued investigation in Illinois, he would have to remain an amateur.
    Cummings turned his attention to the making of money, a topic of escalating importance in view of Odin’s loss of a job. He made a few networking phone calls to contacts of contacts, and then he sent his résumé to fifteen additional headhunters, something he was now doing within one hundred miles of Chicago, rather than the fifty-mile radius he had established the previous month.
    Sometime later the front door buzzer buzzed “shave and a haircut, two bits.” Cummings found this irritating. Opening the door, he found Otto in a tailored English suit with a huge bouquet of flowers. Mandrake, at his side, snapped photos.
    “It’s such a relief to see you again!” Otto said, handing Cummings the bouquet.
    “Thank you, but what’s this for?”
    “It’s an apology for my rudeness in abruptly terminating our last conversation. It’s also my way of letting you know that I’m happy you phoned. I really do need your services.”
    “Come in, please,” Cummings said. “I’m sorry we couldn’t find a time to meet again sooner. I had to go out of town for a funeral.”
    “I am sorry for your loss.”
    “No need to be. It wasn’t anyone close.