Dr. Jim had to be his next subject. Word had already gone to him that he was expected in Carmine’s office at the Holloman PD at nine tomorrow morning. The East Holloman kids had used to call Jim “Gorilla”— the flat nose and gaping nostrils, of course, plus the black, black skin. How cruel children were! To an East Holloman kid in 1950, before the great waves of black immigration from the South, Jim Hunter may as well have been an alien from Mars. Holloman had “gone black” in the fifties, when factory owners like the Parsons and Cornucopia had realized this work force was both capable and grateful for regular employment, even if the wage scale was lower than for whites. The Hollow had always been black, but not as populous, and Argyle Avenue was a fairly recent overflow. Georgia and the Carolinas would always be home, but they weren’t where the work was; the South was not industrialized, even in 1969.
A digression, Carmine. Back to Dr. James Keith Hunter, an African-American of enormous promise, one black child who had to be saved, hence his importation to Holloman in 1950. And his impact on Patsy’s family, on East Holloman in general. So ironic, that the vagaries of life should have led him back to Holloman, where he was still living the life of a poor black, albeit as much of an enigma to his own people as to others. Unless his book lifted him out of debt, put money in the bank that meant a nice home, Dormer Day School fees for his children, and freedom for Millie. At going on thirty-three, they were finally at a point where the comforts of success were a definite probability. Not, however, under Tinkerman!
Now Tinkerman was dead, and the Head Scholar replacing him was very much a Jim Hunter fan.
The biggest puzzle was whereabouts John Hall fitted into all of this, if the two murders were committed with the same end in view. And how could they not be? What had John Hall known — or, failing that, what threat had he represented?
Damn weekends! The real enquiries couldn’t start until tomorrow, which gave the murderer time to cover his tracks.
Something banged hard into Carmine’s leg; startled, he looked down upon an ugly doggy face trying desperately to smile. Frankie had grown tired of waiting for the beloved steps to come through the front door, and gone to find out why they hadn’t.
“Hi, guy,” Carmine said, hunkering down to run a silky ear through his fingers. “It’s cold out here, you crazy mutt.”
Frankie groaned.
“Okay, I give in! Come on, hound.”
They walked up the path together, the dog a respectful half pace behind to guard Carmine’s flank.
Desdemona was in the kitchen. Carmine slid into the booth and sat watching her as the dog took up its usual post at her heels, adept at getting out of her way.
“Smells great. What is it?” he asked.
“Filet of beef with a chateaubriand sauce, potatoes simmered in beef stock, and green beans,” she said, grinning. “This case meant no Sunday midday dinner, and scrod doesn’t fill your tummy for more than two hours, so depending on lunch at Malvolio’s, I thought you might need a treat.” She dropped a block of unsalted butter into her sauce and emptied a saucer of freshly minced tarragon on top of it. “There, we can relax while it melts, after which I have to stir.”
“The kids in bed?”
“As per usual. Alex is asleep, Julian is watching cartoons.”
“I’ll be back.”
Alex was sound asleep, impervious to the racket emanating from the nursery TV set, another Prunella suggestion while she had been in residence with them helping Desdemona get over her depression. It was blatantly reward-and-punishment, but it worked, and Julian had abandoned his defense attorney persona in favor of a more likeable confidence trickster. As neither impressed his father, he looked away from Bugs Bunny and held out his arms.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Hi,” said Carmine, kissing him. “Is Fort Delmonico safe?”
“As houses,” said Julian, full of his mother’s sayings.
“Sorry we didn’t get our walk today — work intruded.”
“I know that!” Julian’s eyes were drifting back to the television set. “Did you catch them yet, Daddy?”
“No. It’s a difficult case.”
“Night-night,” said Julian absently.
Carmine kissed both his sons and left.
His drink was waiting by his chair; he sank into it with a sigh as Desdemona came to join him.
“I’ll start the meat soon, but I thought you needed a couple of drinks first tonight.”
“Perceptive as ever, lovely lady. How do you know?”
“Emilia. She and Maria are cot cases over Millie. I get hourly updates from one or the other.”