She laughed. "Hugh and Davy convinced Poppy to put an espresso machine in at the restaurant—though I say what's espresso got to do with Jamaican food? So I went up to show them how it works. They already got bored with steaming milk and so I said I'd show them some fancy drinks next time." «Them» came out sounding like "dem" — Phoebe had definitely been spending a lot of time with the older members of the family. She gave me a toothy leer. "You're my guinea pig. So drink up, cavy.”
I gave a good-natured shake of the head. "Squee squee," I said.
While I tried to sneak up on the hot cream and coffee, Phoebe made her own drink and joined me in the comfy chairs. "So," she started, "what did you want to ask me about?”
I looked away as I put down my cup. "Mark.”
Phoebe sighed. "That boy is bad luck lately. Whenever he's around, things get broken, books fall off the shelves, the power goes out— you'd think we'd angered a duppy.”
"What's a duppy?”
"In Jamaica that's what we call a bad ghost—or what Poppy calls it—I can hardly remember the place now, but I remember Poppy telling me how the duppies'd get me if I threw dishwater out the window without calling out first. Or how he said I shouldn't throw rocks at night or sit in the doorway, 'cause the duppies'd come over and smack me.”
"Why would they do that?”
Phoebe scowled. "They're just evil old things. They got no heart to tell them right from wrong, so they just get mean and spiteful." She stopped and laughed. "But that's just old wives' tales. You asked me about Mark, didn't you? And why d'you want to talk about Mark, anyway? You finally giving up on that boyfriend who's never around?”
I shook my head with a moment's stifled pang. "Phoebe, I'm not man-shopping. I'm working. Mark was part of a research project at PNU that's got some problems, so I'm looking into the participants to see who might be causing the trouble.”
"You think it's Mark?”
"No, but I have to know more about him. Seeing someone a few times a month doesn't mean you know him.”
Phoebe snorted. "That's what I've been saying about that man of yours.”
I turned a quelling look on her. "Phoebe.”
"All right, all right. What d'you want to know?”
"How long had he worked here? What was he like? What did you know about his life outside of the shop?" I caught myself using the past tense and was relieved Phoebe didn't seem to notice.
"I think Mark's been working for me for. . about three years. Always been reliable, though he's a big flirt and a joker. He's always making people laugh or playing pranks on them, but people like it— he's not mean about it. He's a nice guy. He's good with the stock and the customers, smart, reads a lot, of course—you know I don't take on people who don't love to read. Everybody likes him, women especially— those big, dark eyes and that wild hair look kind of Byronic or something. Heck, men probably like that, too, but he isn't interested, not so I ever noticed.”
"Does he have a girlfriend?”
"Not right now. He was going out with Manda for a while, but that cooled off. Good thing, too—I don't like workplace romances. He doesn't seem to have another girl lately—too busy, I guess.»
"What was he doing—aside from working here?”
"I think he's trying to get some kind of apprenticeship or something.”
"For what sort of work?”
"Oh, he got his degree in theater lighting and set design last year. I think he wanted to work with the opera, but they weren't looking for a junior designer, so he's looking for smaller stuff. I think he wants to stay on the coast, but the only offers he's been getting are in the Midwest or back east.”
"And what's been going on recently? You said he was bad luck.”
Phoebe laughed. "I don't mean it. About a month ago the shop was being vandalized—just petty stuff, things thrown around, messes in the stockroom and office, alarm going off, stupid electrical problems. Then we had the poltergeist.”
"What?" I started.
"I don't know what else to call it. And you know I'm not all spooky and like that, but what else you gonna call it when books go flying around the room with no people holding them and things moving around and turning up places they shouldn't be? And the cats hiding under the furniture." She waved her hands around. "You see any cats out here?”
I looked around and up into the mirror. "I see Mobius on the cash desk.”
"Moby's just a stomach with legs who thinks he can get a piece of Manda's sandwich if he looks at her long enough. It never worked before, but he still thinks it will someday. That cat's brain-damaged. But what I'm telling you is the cats hide whenever Mark is in the shop. They're just now coming out after his shift.”
"The cats don't like Mark?”
"Hell, no, girl. They used to love Mark. They're scared of the things that happen when he's around, these days—they may be animals, but they're not stupid. Mark comes in, things get kind of weird—like poor stupid Moby got his tail under a volume of the Oxford English Dictionary last week and that dinosaur head come right off the wall during happy hour once." She pointed up at a three-quarter-scale reproduction of a tyrannosaur skull that presided over the espresso bar. "I tell you, this has got to end, or I may have to let Mark go.”
I looked down into my cup and discovered I'd finished the drink. "So Mark worked today?”
"Yeah. He's splitting a shift today. He had a half-shift to open and he'll be back for the late-night shift at ten.”
"What time did he leave?”
"Noon. Came in at eight. He has some class or something on Wednesdays—oh, that's the project you're working for, right?”
"Yeah, they have a regular meeting on Wednesdays.”
"Well, now I know.”
"Phoebe. . who's working with Mark tonight?”
"Just me. Wednesdays aren't too busy—sell more coffee than books.”
"What do you do if someone doesn't show up?”
"Just work through it.”
"What about the minions?”
"I usually cover for missing minions and then I chew them out later." She narrowed her eyes at me. "Why?”
"You might want to have someone stay late, in case Mark doesn't show.”
"And why wouldn't he come to work?”
"Just a feeling. Things didn't go well at the project today.”
Phoebe gave me a speculative look.
"I'm just suggesting." I stood up. "Phoebe, I know I'm going to have more questions, but I can't think of them right now.”
"You aren't the only one with questions, Harper. I'll want an explanation if Mark doesn't show up.”
I glanced away. "You'll get one.”
I collected my jacket and left the shop. It was now a quarter of eight and still raining.
I walked a block in the rain to the statue of Lenin and used the pay phone on the side of the building behind him. The zigzag metal awning of a shop called Deluxe Junk kept me from getting soaked as I called Tuckman.
"Dr. Tuckman, Harper Blaine. Have you received any information about Mark Lupoldi yet?”
"No. Why? Didn't you speak to him?”
"He wasn't available." Chances were good Sous was still looking for next of kin to notify and wouldn't catch up to Tuckman for a while, so I'd keep my knowledge to myself for now. "Look, Dr. Tuckman, I'm not sure that what you're getting is normal activity you can—”
He cut me off. "There is nothing normal about what happened this afternoon. That table was not acting 'normally' “
"What's normal about a table running around the room and climbing the walls?”
"Exactly. Exactly," he emphasized. "It shouldn't have that much energy.”
"I understand that, but what I meant is that I think there's a bit more going on here than someone faking phenomena.”