Slugfest

“That’s ridiculous,” Lauryn said. “Jamal is a B plus student with lots of extracurricular activities.”

“We didn’t say he was stupid. For all I care, he’s the editor of the school paper and his mama’s got a bumper sticker that says he’s on the honor roll, but his name came up, unsolicited, in two separate interviews. People say he’s got the makings of a first-rate botanist—or marijuana grower.”

Could Allegra and Rolanda both have put the finger on Jamal? If so, it would be the first time they’d seen eye to eye on anything.

“He’s got a part-time job,” I said.

“So you do know him.” Labidou acted as if he’d caught me in a lie. “You seem to know both of these boys pretty well. You got a thing for younger men?”

For the first time I wished I had a husband or boyfriend to trot out to prove to this Neanderthal that I wasn’t some lonely woman lusting after young boys.

“He sold me a tablecloth, detective. That was the extent of our relationship. If Bleimeister and Jamal knew each other, why would Bleimeister need to sneak into the convention center to see him? What about the names on these two pages?” I flipped through the book and showed them the pages in question. Lauryn read in between the two taller men. Her face turned ashen.

“What is it?”

“We’re High School 240, but our official name is the Byron Davis School. That’s how we were registered here. We’re on these pages.”

Like everyone else, I’d been thinking of them as Sticks and Stones or the Gangsta Gardeners. Their school name hadn’t even registered when I leafed through the book at Lucy’s last night before dozing off. Could we have been that wrong about Jamal?

“Do you plan on interrogating the other people on these pages?” I asked.

“Let’s all stay calm. Right now we’re focusing on Mr. Harrington.”

“Does he need a lawyer?” I asked.

“If he hasn’t done anything, why does he need a lawyer? We just want to talk to him. If either of you ladies sees or hears from him, I strongly suggest you advise him to voluntarily turn himself in for questioning. We will find him, but it will be easier if he comes in on his own. Save the taxpayers a little money. And us, a little aggravation.”

Fat chance. Rolanda and I had tried that the night before. Maybe Lauryn had, too. For all we knew he was already on a bus to his cousin in North Carolina.

“Damn. Here comes another one. Are we doing something this morning to attract fine-looking, ornery women?” Coming toward us wearing the least sincere smile I’d seen on anyone since the last election was Kristi Reynolds. She chattered into a headset, but her eyes were fixed on Stancik and Labidou.

“We’re done,” Stancik said, “but don’t forget—either of you sees Harrington, tell him we want to talk. We don’t want his body to be the next one we find floating in the river.”

Kristi swept the cops off the floor, no doubt doing damage control for the benefit of the morning’s showgoers, who were starting to pour into the exhibit hall. Lauryn stammered an apology.

“Forget it. Look, I wasn’t ready to indict Jamal because of a jacket.” Only then did I realize I hadn’t even mentioned the jacket to the police. And if Rolanda had told them, why wouldn’t they have said something?

“They’re not even going to talk to anyone else, are they?” Lauryn said. “They think they have their man.” She shook her head in disgust.

“We don’t know that. Not to rub your nose in it, but you were wrong about me. I hadn’t said a word about Jamal and you assumed the worst. We could be wrong about them.” I wasn’t sure I believed it either, but I wanted to raise her spirits.

“I should get back to work,” I said. “You know, I’ve already talked to most of the people on those pages. It wouldn’t be so hard for me to ask a few questions. Do a little shopping and snooping at the same time?”

“Would you? I’m going to have my hands full trying to find Jamal and getting him a lawyer.” I said I’d ask around and would let her know if I learned anything useful.

“Sell another piece?” Nikki asked, when I returned.

“Dream on—the one in the brown leather jacket? Probably has a painting on velvet in his bachelor pad. Or one of those prints of the dogs playing poker.”

“Don’t knock those—I’ve sold quite a few of them.”

I shared as much as I thought they needed to know about my conversation with Lauryn and the cops.

“At least the Javits Curse doesn’t seem to have struck this morning,” Nikki said, looking around at the relative calm.

Only if you didn’t count two possible murders and a drug deal gone awry. I wondered silently if Jamal’s absence had anything to do with the disappearance of the curse.

The morning passed quickly with my neighbors depleting their stock of smaller items and keeping their fingers crossed on the bigger pieces. Mrs. Moffitt’s Jensen returned and surreptitiously stole another glance at Nikki’s sarcophagus. I sold an eight-foot-tall wind device and three tabletop sculptures. There wouldn’t be much to pack when the show ended, and that would be good news for the folks in Springfield.

* * *

Foot traffic had slowed to a crawl around lunchtime. My stomach was sending signals, when I remembered J. C.’s scone still in my bag. It would taste delicious drizzled with fresh honey—and I knew where to get some. I wanted to update Cindy about my talk with the cops, so I found her booth number in the directory and headed for the Buzz Word exhibit.

“Is the owner here?”

A smartly dressed woman in her forties or fifties turned around. She had smooth blond hair cut in an ear- length bob and wore a crystal necklace that might have been Baccarat—a yellow bee on a black silk cord. “That’s me. Can I help you?”

“I meant Cindy. Young girl.” Oops. “Dark hair, brown corduroy jacket?”

“Let’s see—I used to be young and had dark hair once, but I can assure you I haven’t owned or worn a brown corduroy jacket since I was about three years old and had no say in the matter. That said, I am Cindy Gustafson.”

Forty-one

“Well, you might have guessed when she said she harvested her honey every month. Perhaps she was thinking of tapping sugar for maple syrup. All the beekeepers I know harvest in the fall.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d been lied to, and I’d get over it. I should have been tipped off when she mentioned Garland’s lost show credentials, but I’d assumed that he was lying to her, not that she was lying to me. So, who was the girl I’d treated to a bagel earlier that morning and why had she concocted that story about Garland Bleimeister?

The real Cindy Gustafson gave me a good price on six pounds of honey—two pounds each for Lucy, J. C., and myself. She even threw in a set of honey dippers and painstakingly wrapped each jar in colorful tissue paper without using tape, just a few strands of raffia attaching the dipper with the last knot. Ordinarily it would have annoyed the heck out of me that she was taking so long, but even though she wasn’t the woman I’d met that morning, her name was on one of those two pages. When given an audience, people love to talk about themselves, and Cindy was no exception.

Buzz Word sold artisanal honeys, lip balms, and soaps. The company was based in Bensalem, Pennsylvania, and at present this Cindy Gustafson was the only employee.

When people heard she was a beekeeper, they expected her to be Olivia Walton, churning her own butter and wearing a long dress like the Amish or the Mormons.

“That’s tiresome. I prefer Coach. Or St. John, when I can afford it.”

Beekeeping wasn’t like that—you could have one box or a hundred. You didn’t even need much room, maybe four cubic feet per box. Cindy knew one man who had his hives on a roof in Philadelphia, ten boxes with ten frames in each. And it only took a few hours a week, except when he harvested.

Cindy had gotten into it in college. A sign outside the cafeteria asked for volunteers to help with a study on