Free Butchers Hill by Laura Lippman Page B

scratched his head. But he seemed to miss
all the nuances in his own family's interactions.
"When I walk down the street with Tess, I see the men
stealing looks at her, wondering how an old man like me got such a
gorgeous companion."
    "Feh," said Gramma,
unimpressed. "A woman who puts stock in that kind of
attention is like a soup bone who thinks the dog has honorable
intentions. Nothing counts until you've got a ring on your
finger. Don't forget that, Tess."
    Which was the only cue Aunt Sylvie needed:
"And when am I going to dance at your wedding,
Tesser?"
    "When the Maryland General
Assembly outlaws the Electric Slide."
    Deborah smiled at Tess over her
son's head, two-year-old Samuel, named for Poppa. Now
thirty-seven, Deborah had spent five years and an estimated fifty
thousand dollars to produce Samuel, insistent that her child have the
same DNA as his parents. As the Chinese say, be careful what you wish
for. Samuel was a miniature Aaron and Aaron, in Tess's
estimation, wasn't worth anywhere close to fifty thousand
dollars. Deborah might have done better shopping around for some sperm
that didn't come with that pale, beady-eye, no-lips gene.
    "Oh, Mama, Tess is a career
woman," Deborah said. "I heard you opened your own
office down on Butchers Hill. How's business?"
    "Great." The afternoon
couldn't have been worse. Tess and Esskay had canvassed
Beale's neighborhood, to see if anyone knew the whereabouts
of Destiny, Treasure, Salamon, and Eldon. It turned out almost everyone
knew who her client was and those who didn't assumed she was
a cop. Neither camp was inclined to help her beyond
"Hello," "Nope," and
"Good-bye." Oh, they had been polite enough; they
just wouldn't talk to her. She had never felt so white before. Until today, she had thought she was pretty good at inspiring
confidence in people, but her open countenance and ready smile
hadn't beguiled these folks. Not even Esskay, with her
ingratiating little snorts, had been able to break the ice.
    "Aren't you nervous in
that neighborhood?"
    "It's not so
bad."
    "Really? Didn't I read
in the paper last week that a prostitute was found near the Patterson
Park pagoda, stabbed and beaten?"
    Good old Deborah. She probably
couldn't name the current president of the United States, but
she had managed to find that one-paragraph item in the Beacon-Light .
    "Was she black?" Gramma
asked.
    "The paper didn't
say."
    "It's not supposed
to," Tess said. "They don't put race in
unless it's relevant—"
    "Black," Gramma decreed.
"Well, let them murder one another. She probably left behind
five children we'll all have to pay for." Everyone
looked at the ceiling, and Uncle Donald cleared his throat nervously,
but no one said anything.
    Judith poked her head around the kitchen
door. "The coffee's ready. Raise your hand if you
want a cup."
    "Theresa Esther, you lazy girl,
get in there and help your mother," Gramma said.
"It's her birthday, after all."
    As with everything at Gramma's
house, there was a strict hierarchy to the gift ritual. Uncle Spike
always went first, as his actual relationship to the family remained
somewhat dubious. The Weinsteins suspected he was a Monaghan, the
Monaghans were sure he must be a Weinstein. He kept everyone guessing
by attending all events, even ones like this, where he wasn't
actually invited.
    This year, he and Uncle Donald had gone in
together on Judith's present and when Tess passed the large,
heavy box to her mother, she had a sinking feeling. It felt like a
piece of electronic equipment. Uncle Spike, a bartender and a bookie,
tended to buy such things off the backs of trucks, while Uncle Donald
had been known to use his state government job to write awfully
creative procurement orders.
    "One of those radio-CD
players," Judith said happily. "How did you know I
wanted one for the kitchen?"
    "I've got my
spies," Uncle Donald said, winking at Tess. "Is it
okay? We can always…exchange it if it's not what
you want."
    Uncle Spike looked up anxiously from