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

reminded him of how colorful Horeb actually was. By comparison Chicago seemed as unimaginative as corn.
    Feenie Malaga greeted him. She was a performance artist named for phenobarbital by her besotted mother because “you know what they say about Maine, mostly drinking villages with small fishing problems.” She had violent violet hair and a contorted chrysanthemum tattoo on her arm. Cummings had originally encountered her in a local supermarket, buying a quart of vodka, a quart of milk and a quart of Drano, which had led him to wonder briefly if this was some kind of local mixed drink.
    Her brother Isidore, who rarely said anything but was noted for his paintings of pigeons, was also there. As usual, he was austerely dressed in a black suit, black tie, white shirt, white socks and black shoes. The only burst of color on him was his hair, which was a shade of pumpkin.
    Cassandra Parsons, the proprietress of the Horeb Country Store, nodded at Cummings as he passed by. She was a study in brusqueness: tall and thin but more than that, angular. Her face was tanned and worn. Her nails were short, and so was her piebald grey and brown hair. Her facial expression, to the extent that she had one, was a half-frown. Her cheerfully rude teenager daughter, Alice, was with her. Alice gave Cummings the finger and smiled.
    He saw his former boss, Birdie Wordsworth, the benefactress of the Panegyricus Foundation, an arts philanthropy that gave money to creative individuals to “promote the ineffable visions of the individual.” At her Florida residence, using only a luncheon fork, she had once saved her gardener from a python.
    Norbert and Glenda Auchincloss waved at Cummings from across the room. They owned a nudist sauna but today were dressed in dark summer weight wool. Glenda, a small, bulky creature who looked like an anthropomorphic potato, was deaf and originally from California. There she’d taken up S&M. Highly flexible, if not very affable, she was known by her friends as “the wicked switch of the West.”
    Moving on from the parade of individualists, Cummings spoke with Chess’s father, Fletcher, Horeb’s postmaster, who was as devastated by the loss of his son as one would expect. Cummings offered his condolences.
    Finally Cummings saw Officer Bernier sitting in a window seat, working on a piece of lace shaped like a moose head. Cummings realized he had never seen Officer Bernier out of uniform.
    “How are you, Officer Bernier?”
    Bernier, who didn’t remember Cummings, stared for a moment, trying to identify him. When he did, he scowled slightly.
    “Mister Wanamaker. I thought you’d moved to the Midwest.”
    “I have. I came back for Chess’s funeral. A very sad day.”
    “I trust you won’t be interfering with any of my investigations while you’re here?”
    “When have I ever interfered, Officer Bernier?” Cummings smiled.
    “When have you indeed?” Bernier scowled again.
    Apparently, he hadn’t forgiven Cummings for solving several cases that Bernier couldn’t solve himself while he lived in the village.
    Cummings returned to Ernestine, who was sipping fruit punch to which she had added brandy from a sterling silver flash hidden in her décolletage.
    “Is Smelt here? Or his housekeeper?” Cummings asked, surveying the room.
    “I haven’t seen them, dear,” Ernestine said, “but that is not a surprise. I think I told you that Deuty keeps very much to himself. As to Elektra, she works for Deuty, but she’s never really been part of the community.”
    “Perhaps I should pay them a visit. Elektra found the body, didn’t she?”
    “I’m not sure how effective a visit might be. Deuty can be irascible.”
    “Perhaps if you call ahead and grease the wheels for me.”
    “Oh, that won’t do any good. Deuty doesn’t use the telephone. He writes postcards.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “If he has something to say, he writes it down on a postcard and has Elektra mail it or hand it along to