Possession in Death

Four

It reminded her of her first apartment — the size, the age. That's what she told herself when struck, just for an instant, with a sharp sense of recognition.

The single room had no doubt been rented furnished, with a couple of cheap chairs and a daybed with a cracker-thin mattress, a chest — newly and brightly painted — that served as dresser and table.

Boldly patterned material had been fashioned into curtains for the single window, and with these and scarves and shawls draped over the faded chairs, spread over the narrow bed, the room took on a hopeful cheer.

One corner held a sink, AutoChef, friggie, all small-scale, along with a single cupboard. Another table stood there, painted a deep, glossy red under its fringed scarf. For seating, there were two backless stools.

Eve saw the old woman there, telling fortunes to those who sought to know their future.

“She made it nice,” Peabody commented. “She didn't have a lot to work with, but she made it nice.”

Eve opened the single, skinny closet, studied Szabo's neatly hung clothing, a single pair of sturdy walking shoes. Kneeling, she pulled two storage boxes out of the closet.

“Beata's things. Clothes, shoes, ballet gear, I'd say. A few pieces of jewelry, face and hair stuff. The landlord must have boxed it up when she didn't come back, didn't pay the rent.”

It hurt, hurt to look through, to touch, to feel Beata as she dug through pretty blouses, skimmed over worn slippers.

She knew better, she reminded herself, knew better than to become personally involved. Beata Varga wasn't her victim, not directly.

The promise is in you.

The voice spoke insistently inside her head, inside her heart.

“Tag these,” Eve ordered, shoving to her feet. She crossed over to the chest, studied the photo of Beata propped there and fronted by three scribed candles. Beside the photo a handful of colored crystals glittered in a small dish along with an ornate silver bell and a silver-backed hand mirror.

“What do we have on the granddaughter?” Eve asked.

“Beata Varga, age twenty-two. She's here on a work visa, and employed — until she went missing three months ago — at Goulash. No criminal. The family filed a report. A Detective Lloyd is listed as investigating officer. Missing Persons Division out of the One-three-six.”

“Reach out there,” Eve told her. “Have him meet us at the restaurant. Thirty minutes.”

She opened the first drawer of the chest, found neatly folded underwear and nightclothes, and a box of carved wood. She lifted the lid, studied the pack of tarot cards, the peacock feather, the small crystal ball and stand.

Tools of her trade, Eve thought, started to set the box aside. Then, following impulse, pressed her thumbs over the carved flowers on the sides. Left, left, right. And a narrow drawer slid out of the base.

“Wow.” Peabody leaned over her shoulder. “A secret drawer. Frosty. How did you open it?”

“Just . . . luck,” Eve said, even as the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

Inside lay a lock of dark hair tied with gold cord, a wand-shaped crystal on a chain, and a heart of white stone.

“They're hers.” Eve's throat went dry and achy. “Beata's. Her hair, something she wore, something she touched.”

“You're probably right. Szabo probably used them, along with the cards and crystals, maybe the bell and the mirror in locator spells. I'm not saying you can find people with spells,” Peabody added when Eve just stared at her. “But that she thought she could. Anyway, Detective Lloyd's going to meet us.”

“Then let's see what else we can find here first.”

The old woman lived simply, neatly, and cautiously. In the cloth bag in the bottom of the chest Eve found a small amount of cash, another bag of crystals and herbs, a map of the city, and a subway card, along with ID and passport and a number of the flyers with Beata's image and information.

But taped under the friggie they found an envelope of cash with a peacock feather fixed diagonally across the seal.

“That's about ten thousand,” Peabody estimated. “She didn't have to read palms to pay the rent.”

“It's what she did. What kept her centered. Bag it, and let's seal this place up. We should get to the restaurant.”

“She made it nice,” Peabody repeated with another glance around. “I guess that's what travelers do. Make a home wherever they land, then pack it up and make the next one.”

Beata hadn't packed it up, Eve thought, and wherever she was, it wasn't home.

В

Goulash did a bustling business on Saturday evening. Spices perfumed air that rang with voices and the clatter of silverware, the clink of glasses. The waitstaff wore red sashes at the waist of black uniforms while moving briskly from kitchen to table.

A rosy-cheeked woman of about forty offered Eve a welcoming smile. “Welcome to Goulash. Do you have a reservation?”

Eve palmed her badge. “We're not here for dinner.”

“Beata! You've found her.”

“No.”

“Oh.” The smile faded away. “I thought . . . I'm sorry, what can I do for you?”

“We're meeting Detective Lloyd on a police matter. We'll need somewhere to talk. And I'll need to speak with you and your staff.”

“Of course.” She looked around. “We're not going to have a table free for at least a half hour, but you can use the kitchen.”

“That's fine. Your name?”

“Mirium Frido. This is my place, my husband's and mine. He's the chef. Is this about Beata? Beata Varga?”

“Indirectly.”

“Give me one minute to put someone else on the door.” Mirium hurried over to one of the waitresses. The girl glanced at Eve and Peabody, nodded.

Mirium signaled Eve forward, then led them through the dining room, past the bar, and through one of a pair of swinging doors into the chaos of the kitchen.

“Dinner rush. I'll set you up over here — our chef's table. Jan invites customers back sometimes — gives them a treat. I told Vee to send Detective Lloyd back when he gets here. He's been in several times about Beata, so everyone knows him. Can you tell me anything about her? Do you have more information?”

“I'll know more when I speak with the detective. She worked for you.”

“Yes. A beautiful girl and a good worker. She was a pleasure.” Mirium reached back to a shelf, picked up three setups, and arranged them on the table. “I know they think she just took off — Gypsy feet — but it doesn't make sense. She made amazing tips — the looks, the voice, the personality. And . . . well, she just wouldn't be that rude and careless, wouldn't have left without telling us. Or her family.”

“Boyfriend?”

“No. Nothing serious and no one specific. She dated — she's young and gorgeous. But she was serious about her dancing. Went to auditions, took classes every day. She had an understudy spot in a small musical review. And she'd just landed a part in the chorus on a new musical spot off-Broadway. There wasn't enough time for a serious boyfriend. I'm sorry, please sit. How about some food?”

“We're good, thanks. You have flyers at the reservation station, I noticed.”

“Yes. Her grandmother — well, great-grandmother — is here from Hungary. She had them made up and takes them around the city. She comes by here every day. Detective — ”

“Lieutenant,” Eve said automatically.

“Lieutenant, Beata worked here nearly a year. You get to know people who work for you, and I promise you, she wouldn't worry her family this way. I'm so afraid something's happened to her. I know Madam Szabo's determined to find her, but with every day that passes . . . ”

“I'm sorry to tell you Gizi Szabo was killed this afternoon.”

“No.” Instantly Mirium's eyes filled. “Oh, no. What happened?”

“We're going to find out.”

“She told my fortune,” Mirium murmured. “Said I would have a child, a son. Jan and I haven't . . . That was two months ago. I found out yesterday I'm pregnant. I told her just today.”

“She was in today.”

“Yes, about eleven, I guess.” Shaking her head, Mirium swiped at a tear while the kitchen bustle raged on around them. “She was so happy for me. She said she'd felt his search, my son's. An old soul, she said, who'd turned the wheel again. She talked like that,” Mirium murmured. “I don't really believe that sort of thing, but when she looks at you . . . She's — she was — Romany, and a speaker for the dead.”

So am I, Eve thought with a quick chill. I speak for the dead. “What time did she leave?”

“She was only here a few minutes. She said she was going home. She said she felt closer to Beata, felt something coming. Or someone. I don't know, she was — I want to say optimistic. She was going to rest and then do a new spell because she was breaking through, well, the veil. She said Beata was toward the setting sun, below the rays, um, locked beyond the red door. I have no idea what that meant,” Mirium added. “Or if it meant anything, but she was fierce about it. She swore Beata was alive, but trapped. By a devil.

“I know how that sounds,” she continued. “But — ” She glanced over. “Here's Detective Lloyd. Sorry I went on like that.”

“Don't be,” Eve told her. “Every detail, every impression, is helpful.”

“I just can't believe Madam's gone. She was such a presence, even for the short time I knew her. Excuse me. I need to tell Jan. Hello, Detective Lloyd, have a seat.”

Lloyd was a square-faced, square-bodied man who transmitted I'm a cop from thirty paces. He gave Eve and Peabody a brisk nod, then sat at the little square table. Shook hands.

“It's too bad about the old lady. She had some juice, had some spine. She should've stayed back home.”

She made home where she landed, Eve thought, remembering Peabody's take. “Tell me about Beata Varga.”

He hitched up a hip, took a disc out of his pocket. “I went ahead and made a copy of the file for you.”

“Appreciate it.”

“She's a looker. Smart, from what I get, savvy, but still green when it comes to city. Used to wandering with her family — tribe, you'd say. Came here wanting to be a Broadway star, and the family wasn't happy about it.”

“Is that so?”

“Wanted her home. Wanted her to stay pure, you could say. Get hitched, have babies, keep the line going, that sort of thing. But, the old woman — Szabo — overruled them. She wanted the girl to take her shot, find her destiny, like that. The girl got a job here and a place a couple blocks away. Started taking classes — dance classes, acting classes, stuff like that, at West Side School for the Arts. Went to the cattle calls regular. No boyfriend — or not one in particular. Dated a few guys. I got the names and statements, the data in the file there.” He nodded toward the disc. “Nobody rang the bell.”

He paused when Mirium came over with a tray holding three tall glasses. “I don't mean to interrupt. Just something cold to drink while you talk. If you need me for anything, I'll be out front.”

“They're good people,” Lloyd commented when she left them. “Her, her husband. They come up clean. Ran the whole staff when I caught the case. Got some bumps here and there, but nobody popped.”

“What's the time line?”

When he didn't refer to his notes, Eve knew the case had him, and his teeth were still in it.

“Beata Varga went to her regular dance class, eight a.m. to ten. Hit a rehearsal for the show she just landed at Carmine Theater on Tenth at eleven. Reported here for work at one, all excited about the show. Worked a split shift, so she was off at three, hit her acting class from three thirty to five, back to work at five thirty, off at eleven. Walked down the block with a couple friends from work — names in the file — then split off to go home. That's the last anyone can verify seeing her. Eleven ten, then poof.

“Apartment's not big on security. No cams,” he added. “No log-in. The neighbors can't say whether she came in that night, but nobody saw her. A bag and some of her clothes and personal items are gone, and there was no money in the place. According to statements, she pulled in hefty tips and was saving. It looks like she got itchy feet, tossed what she wanted in a bag, and took off.”

“That's not what you think,” Eve said, watching his eyes.

“Nope. I think between here and home she ran into trouble. Somebody snatched her. I think she's been dead since that night. You know as well as I do, Lieutenant, we don't always find the bodies.”

No, Eve thought. “If she's dead, then someone she knew killed her. Why else try to make it seem like she took off? Why pack clothes?”

“I lean that way, but I can't find anything.” Frustration rippled around him. “It could be whoever did her used her ID for her address, had her key — she carried all that in her purse. Tried to cover it up. I'm still working it, when I can, as an MP, but my sense is it's more in your line.”

He glanced around as he sipped his drink. “The old woman didn't buy it for cheap,” he said. “Claimed she talked to the dead, and if the girl was dead, she'd know. I don't buy that for free, but . . . Now the old woman gets murdered? People get dead in the city,” he added as he set his glass down. “But it's got a smell to it. I'd appreciate you giving me what you've got on it. Something or somebody might cross somewhere.”

“You'll get it,” Eve promised. Because something or somebody would cross.