Read Online Mummers' Curse by Gillian Roberts - Free Book Online
Authors: Gillian Roberts
Tags: Mystery
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the second floor. Some were natural brick, others had been painted or stuccoed over. All were lovingly maintained, except for one whose paint was peeling and crackling, but it was for sale and would undoubtedly be brought up to speed once it found an owner.
Philadelphia’s row houses were the local equivalent of New York’s high-rising railroad flats. Manhattan Island had nowhere to go but up, but here, with all the space in the world, when quarters for workers were required, we expanded horizontally. Two or three bedrooms, one bath upstairs, living room, dining room, kitchen, one behind the other, downstairs. Houses sharing common walls to conserve heat and expense.
Over the years, the people of Vincent’s neighborhood had personalized their addresses in ways apartment dwellers never could, with window boxes, shutters, wrought-iron stair rails, metal awnings, and aluminum or fake stone siding. Each street of homes wore many faces, and for better or for worse, South Philly was an idiosyncratic patchwork. At this time of year, it was particularly exuberant with colored lights outlining doors, windows, and rooflines above which, often as not, sat Santa and all his reindeer and below which were front-window Nativity scenes. That and last night’s snow moved the neighborhood to within shouting distance of a Currier and Ives.
I banged a brass knocker attached to an evergreen front door. The brick facade of the house was the color of aged burgundy, and its shutters matched the door. I could tilt sideways and peek through lace curtains into a living room dominated by a heavily decorated Christmas tree and the spastic sounds of TV cartoons.
I banged more heavily and pressed the doorbell, twice. The noise of cartoons raged on, but I also heard human voices.
Vincent’s face appeared at the same window I had peered into. Not a subtle lookout system. I waved and pointed at the door.
He looked resigned, not thrilled, to see me.
“I’ve been calling you,” I said as soon as he admitted me. “We have to talk.”
His son, a bowl of pink-and-yellow dry cereal on his lap, sat on green carpeting in the middle of the precise room with its yellow brocade sofa and end chairs. Even TV snacks were color-coordinated here.
The boy turned toward me. “Hi,” I said, remembering my manners. “Chipper, isn’t it?” His name was Vincent, Junior, and they were avoiding the Little Vincent syndrome, although I think they could have found a more appealing substitute than Chipper. “I’m Amanda Pepper, and we met when your dad brought you to see where he worked, remember?”
Chipper squinted and said, “Hi.” Then, since I was not nearly as interesting as a cartoon, he turned away.
“Kids!” Vincent raked his hair with his fingers. “No manners.” I didn’t think his son’s deportment was what troubled him. “We’ve told him a thousand—”
“I have a question, Vincent,” I said. “I need to know why you’re using me as an al—”
“Barbs, this is Mandy Pepper, remember her?” Vincent spoke too loudly and emphatically. His nervousness bounced off the pale green walls. I turned and saw her, plump and apprehensive, in the arched entry to the dining room. “Teacher at Philly Prep? You met at the diner that night?”
“Sure,” Barbs said quickly. “Good to see you again. Excuse the mess. We weren’t expecting anybody. Take off your coat, why don’t you?”
I unbundled myself and looked around. It was not a house where I’d drop outer garments on a nearby chair, even if I were staying for two minutes. Barbs put out her arms and I handed most of my wardrobe over.
“Your house looks beautiful, and that’s a gorgeous tree.” Enough niceties. We had a murder suspect here, the posse was on his trail, and I’d been given oblique and short-lived permission to save both the day and the friend. “I’m sorry to barge in,” I said. “I left messages on your machine, but perhaps it isn’t working?”
Without
Philadelphia’s row houses were the local equivalent of New York’s high-rising railroad flats. Manhattan Island had nowhere to go but up, but here, with all the space in the world, when quarters for workers were required, we expanded horizontally. Two or three bedrooms, one bath upstairs, living room, dining room, kitchen, one behind the other, downstairs. Houses sharing common walls to conserve heat and expense.
Over the years, the people of Vincent’s neighborhood had personalized their addresses in ways apartment dwellers never could, with window boxes, shutters, wrought-iron stair rails, metal awnings, and aluminum or fake stone siding. Each street of homes wore many faces, and for better or for worse, South Philly was an idiosyncratic patchwork. At this time of year, it was particularly exuberant with colored lights outlining doors, windows, and rooflines above which, often as not, sat Santa and all his reindeer and below which were front-window Nativity scenes. That and last night’s snow moved the neighborhood to within shouting distance of a Currier and Ives.
I banged a brass knocker attached to an evergreen front door. The brick facade of the house was the color of aged burgundy, and its shutters matched the door. I could tilt sideways and peek through lace curtains into a living room dominated by a heavily decorated Christmas tree and the spastic sounds of TV cartoons.
I banged more heavily and pressed the doorbell, twice. The noise of cartoons raged on, but I also heard human voices.
Vincent’s face appeared at the same window I had peered into. Not a subtle lookout system. I waved and pointed at the door.
He looked resigned, not thrilled, to see me.
“I’ve been calling you,” I said as soon as he admitted me. “We have to talk.”
His son, a bowl of pink-and-yellow dry cereal on his lap, sat on green carpeting in the middle of the precise room with its yellow brocade sofa and end chairs. Even TV snacks were color-coordinated here.
The boy turned toward me. “Hi,” I said, remembering my manners. “Chipper, isn’t it?” His name was Vincent, Junior, and they were avoiding the Little Vincent syndrome, although I think they could have found a more appealing substitute than Chipper. “I’m Amanda Pepper, and we met when your dad brought you to see where he worked, remember?”
Chipper squinted and said, “Hi.” Then, since I was not nearly as interesting as a cartoon, he turned away.
“Kids!” Vincent raked his hair with his fingers. “No manners.” I didn’t think his son’s deportment was what troubled him. “We’ve told him a thousand—”
“I have a question, Vincent,” I said. “I need to know why you’re using me as an al—”
“Barbs, this is Mandy Pepper, remember her?” Vincent spoke too loudly and emphatically. His nervousness bounced off the pale green walls. I turned and saw her, plump and apprehensive, in the arched entry to the dining room. “Teacher at Philly Prep? You met at the diner that night?”
“Sure,” Barbs said quickly. “Good to see you again. Excuse the mess. We weren’t expecting anybody. Take off your coat, why don’t you?”
I unbundled myself and looked around. It was not a house where I’d drop outer garments on a nearby chair, even if I were staying for two minutes. Barbs put out her arms and I handed most of my wardrobe over.
“Your house looks beautiful, and that’s a gorgeous tree.” Enough niceties. We had a murder suspect here, the posse was on his trail, and I’d been given oblique and short-lived permission to save both the day and the friend. “I’m sorry to barge in,” I said. “I left messages on your machine, but perhaps it isn’t working?”
Without
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