The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(58)

“Murdered?” Both hands took hold of her chin. “So something did happen.”

“Not here, ma’am, on the Westside.”

“The Westside—that’s a switch. Who’s this person?”

Milo showed her Roget’s picture.

“Mr. Solomon? Oh, no.”

“You know him by name.”

“He wasn’t a regular but he did come in enough for us to chat. And yes, he did post his ads. A chauffeur, right—poor Mr. Solomon. You think someone who hired him killed him?”

“We’re looking into everything.”

“It couldn’t be my customers,” she said. “I don’t get gangsters, and the Rastas who buy from me are serious about their faith. I even get white folk. Students and faculty from USC and Mount Saint Mary’s. I used to work in administration at Mount Saint Mary’s, my husband’s an electrician there. Last week he sent me a dean of nursing and she bought up all of my sausage. We’re getting a reputation, some of those downtown hipster types are starting to come in, it’s a well-behaved clientele, I wouldn’t tolerate otherwise.”

“Got it, Ms….”

“Frieda Graham. Why would anyone hurt Mr. Solomon? He was such a gentleman…I know, it’s a foolish question.”

Milo said, “We ask ourselves the same thing pretty often.”

“Some job you have. Anyway, sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

“Could we show you some photos?”

“Of who?”

“People who might be involved—not suspects, just involved. We’d like to know if they’ve ever been here.”

“I can’t remember everyone, but I’ll give it a try, why not.”



* * *



—

Visual pop quiz, Frieda Graham’s focus intense, her responses immediate.

Rick Gurnsey: “Nice looking…no.”

Benny Alvarez: “He looks kind of frail…no.”

Mary Ann Huralnik: “She looks totally out of it…no.”

Geoffrey Dugong: “That beard, we do get some like that, like I said hipsters…no, not him. I’m pretty sure.”

Milo said, “Pretty sure but not certain?”

“Ninety percent,” said Frieda Graham. “Because if I’d seen him clean-shaven, he’d look different. But like this—those beard-rings—he reminds me of that wrestler…Captain Lou Albano? My dad used to watch him.”

She used her hand to block the bottom half of Dugong’s face, studied the eyes. “Ninety-five percent no, I’d remember those eyes, they’re kind of crazy—have you seen Van Gogh’s self-portrait?”

Milo let her stay with the photo. She handed it back, shaking her head. “I’m gonna say no. Those eyes, though—is he like a semi-suspect?”

Milo smiled and showed her Medina Okash’s DMV photo.

She said, “Yes.”





CHAPTER


    28


“She’s a customer,” said Milo.

“Definitely,” said Frieda Graham. “That hair—I think last time it was purple. But definitely yes, that face. I remember her because she was touchy.”

“About what?”

“Not touchy-sensitive, touchy-feely. Like this.”

She leaned over the counter and dabbed his shoulder lightly with a green-nailed fingertip. “Like a pecking bird. Kind of annoying but you know, the customer’s always right. Hold on. Juan? Come over.”

The sweeper joined us. “She’s been here, right?”

He nodded.

“I told them she liked to do this.” Repeating the dabbing on Juan’s arm.

He laughed. “Mosquito.”

Milo said, “She ever give you problems, Juan?”

“No. Just mosquito.” Jabbing air. More laughter.

“Thanks.”

Juan returned to his broom.

Milo turned back to Graham. “Can you remember the last time she was here?”

“Hmm,” said Graham. “Not recently—maybe a month? Five, six weeks? Could even be longer. What I can tell you is she always bought the same thing: prepared jerk chicken dinner and Red Stripe—that’s a Jamaican beer. Also veggies—yellow and purple yams. That hair, I figured her for an artist. Am I right?”

“Art dealer.”

“Oh. That also makes sense. I assumed artist because one time she had a painting tucked under her arm—or maybe it was a drawing, I never actually saw it. Big, thin square wrapped in brown paper. She saw me looking at it and said she didn’t want to leave it in her car. Did she pull off one of Mr. Solomon’s tabs? Sorry, no idea. It’s a courtesy we extend to the neighborhood, we just make sure to keep the board squeaky clean.”

I said, “Don’t see any security cameras.”

“Oh, I’ve got some,” said Graham. “Two in the parking lot and another outside the rear door leading to the delivery area. But for the store, I rely on my rolling gate, my dead bolt, and my alarm. So far, we’ve been okay. Three false alarms during the fourteen months we’ve been here. Old wiring.”

“Do you have tape from the parking lot?”