Mummers' Curse

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  The Mummers’ Curse

  Praise for The Mummers’ Curse

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  The Mummers’ Curse

  By Gillian Roberts

  Copyright 2012 by Judith Greber

  Cover Copyright 2012 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  Previously published in print, 1996.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Gillian Roberts and Untreed Reads Publishing Caught Dead in Philadelphia Philly Stakes

  I’d Rather Be in Philadelphia With Friends Like These

  How I Spent My Summer Vacation In the Dead of Summer

  http://www.untreedreads.com

  The Mummers’ Curse

  AN AMANDA PEPPER MYSTERY

  Gillian Roberts

  Praise for The Mummers’ Curse

  “The comic gift is like a charm: You either have it or you don’t. Gillian Roberts has it and uses it to good advantage in this latest addition to her Amanda Pepper series.”

  —San Diego Union-Tribune “The Mummers’ Curse is typical Roberts, who manages to balance Amanda’s amusing outlook on life with a tough, well-plotted mystery.”

  —Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel “Amusing and satisfying.”

  —Contra Costa Times “This is the best Amanda Pepper since she made her first appearance in Caught Dead in Philadelphia… Delightful style.”

  —Meritorious Mysteries Acclaim for Gillian Roberts and her previous Amanda Pepper mysteries:

  CAUGHT DEAD IN PHILADELPHIA

  “A stylish, wittily observant, and highly enjoyable novel.”

  —Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

  PHILLY STAKES

  “Lively... Breezy... Entertaining.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle I’D RATHER BE IN PHILADELPHIA

  “Literate, amusing, and surprising, while at the same time spinning a crack whodunit puzzle.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE…

  “A pleasurable whodunit with real motives, enough clues to allow a skillful reader of mysteries to make some intelligent guesses, and a plethora of suspects.”

  —Chicago Tribune HOW I SPENT MY SUMMER VACATION

  “Roberts concocts colorful and on-the-mark scenes.”

  —Los Angeles Daily News

  IN THE DEAD OF SUMMER

  “Tart-tongued, warm-hearted Amanda’s sixth case is as engaging as her others, and here she gets to do more detection than usual.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  For Tobi and Jerry Ludwig with abiding love for both of you from both of me (even though you wouldn’t strut New Year’s morning).

  Acknowledgments

  HEARTFELT THANKS TO THE STAFF OF THE NEW YEAR’S Shooters and Mummers Museum, particularly Jack Cohen, Library Coordinator, Palma Lucas, Executive Director, and museum volunteer Bill “Curley” Conners of the Ferko String Band for providing me with memories, stories, articles and studies, and for being so patient and helpful with my questions. A special debt of gratitude to Dr. Charles Welch, who not only wrote the book on Mummers on which both Mandy and I relied, but who duplicated an invaluable tape for me when I needed it most.

  To Pat Fleck, for research assistance beyond the call of duty and geography, to Amy Reisch, for providing a fresh viewpoint on Philadelphia, and to Sheila Winokur for knowing “the neighborhood”—many, many thanks.

  As always, it is a joy to have such generous and talented writer friends as Susan Dunlap and Marilyn Wallace sharpen my focus when and where it blurred.

  And to Jean Naggar, my agent, and Joe Blades, my editor, thank you, thank you, for being who you are and thereby making telling stories a pleasure as well as a profession.

  Lastly, gratitude to Nancy Ramsey and Rusty Schweikart for sharing the saga of their cat’s final chapter, and greetings to Sid, wherever he now is…

  Introduction

  Sometimes we see things only after they are out of sight.

  To me, having grown up in Philadelphia, New Year’s Day meant the Mummers’ Parade, an all-day festival of thousands of extravagantly costumed men strutting and playing their special string-band music.

  And every January 2nd, I forgot all about them. Until, that is, I moved 3,000 miles away and found myself, one New Year’s Eve, describing those parades to people who’d never seen them. When I saw and heard my friends’ reaction, I belatedly realized what a unique treasure they were. How on earth had I taken this phenomenon for granted? I had to write and tell people about them.

  Alas, given my murderous inclinations, my “tribute” to the Philadelphia Mummers was to kill one of them during the parade while thousands of people watched. My apologies.

  Out in the rest of the world, things have changed a great deal since The Mummers’ Curse was written. Not the strutting, dancing people who parade. They’re a more diverse group now and they include women, but mostly they are still splendidly who they were since the parade began 101 years ago.

  But you’ll notice as you read this on a device that would have seemed a futuristic fantasy to Amanda, that she says, as if it were a ridiculously far-fetched idea, that maybe she should get a fax, or e-mail, and she’s still obliged to use the school’s payphone when she needs to make a call. Technology has raced ahead with no regard for tradition. Happily, the world of the Mummers has not.

  Gillian Roberts

  August 2012

  One

  “YOU’LL CATCH YOUR DEATH.” MY MOTHER HAD LIVED IN FLORIDA a long time, and her weather perspective was sun-damaged. I said nothing.

  “Would it be a bad idea to listen to me once in a while? Might make a good New Year’s resolution.”

  In hindsight, that wasn’t a dumb suggestion. Alas, one doesn’t get hindsight until it’s too late to use it, so I didn’t listen to her suggestion to listen.

  Nor did she stop nagging. “I can’t believe you’re dragging a grandchild of mine along with you,” she said. “The high is supposed to be five degrees. It says so in the paper here.”

  The Southland paper was always full of happy news and it was always the same: extra, extra! rotten weather everywhere else.

  And, indeed, damp, bone-crunching misery had been our lot for a while and was predicted as well for the first day of January.

  “I told you to come here for winter vacation,” she said. “It was eighty-four today.”

  I had called to wish my parents a happy New Year and had, in a desperate but ill-chosen attempt to make conversation, mentioned that Mackenzie and I were takin
g Karen, my sister’s older child, to the Mummers’ Parade the next morning. In fact, we three parade-goers were spending a quiet New Year’s Eve together at home, the better to have hangover-free eyes and ears the following day.

  I thought my folks would be impressed with this show of domesticity. I was spending New Year’s Eve with a six-year-old. I thought they’d happily misinterpret that as a sign I was headed in what they perceived as the right direction. But the only direction my mother ever clearly perceived was hers, be it philosophical or geographical.

  “Five degrees there and beautiful here,” my mother repeated.

  Ever since she moved south, the woman has suffered from the delusion that I crave data on comparative atmospheric conditions. The greater the disparity between the mercury hither and yon, the more urgent her need to share this news. Had they only invented the Weather Channel sooner, she’d have been a natural as its anchorwoman.

  “We took a walk,” she said. “On the beach. At sunset. Daddy and me. Tonight.” Semaphore-speak, telegraphese, teensy sentences, as if my mind were too frostbitten to absorb more than one fact at a time. “It was balmy. I was sweating by the end.”

  “Make sure to wear sunblock,” I said briskly. “You don’t want your face looking like beef jerky. Meanwhile, I’d better check on Karen and…”

  “Poor child will freeze.”

  “Stop making her sound like the little match girl. It’s her cultural heritage.”

  “Freezing or matches?”

  “The Mummers’ Parade. If we needed to strut our stuff on a warm day, we would have been born in New Orleans. We’re tough, we’re Philadelphians. Having our parade on the least likely day of the year seasons us, makes us all that we are.”

  “Karen doesn’t live in Philadelphia,” my mother said. “She lives outside the city. They have their own traditions.”

  I pictured the Main Line denizens in their duck-patterned golf pants playing banjos and doing the Mummers’ strut around the eighteenth hole. It did not compute. “I think clipping coupons is their folk tradition, Mom, and it’s not entertaining to watch.”

  “Oh, Amanda,” she sighed. We were ending the year as we’d begun it, with my mother vaguely disappointed in my choices and actions. At least there was symmetry.

  *

  “Hey, Karen,” I said the next day as we shivered on the sidewalk. “What’s two and a half miles long, sixty-nine feet wide, twelve feet high, and covered with feathers?”

  “A riddle,” she said. “Good! But is there a knock-knock part?”

  When I shook my head, she gave up. “The Mummers’ Parade!” I said, although it was difficult making merry through clattering incisors. As we watched the last of the parading comics, I recalled why I’d skipped the last several dozen parades. The air and wind acted like a sushi-master’s knife on my skin. The environment was sufficiently evil to make in-person parade-watching a spectator sport for masochists, but not evil enough to postpone the event. Parades were rescheduled when rain or snow endangered the expensive and fragile costumes and instruments. Nobody worried about endangering spectators.

  “What this city needs is the sense to stage an outdoor extravaganza when the weather’s decent.” Mackenzie said this with a wink and a good-ol’-boy drawl that was meant to, but didn’t, take the edge off his words.

  It would, indeed, be lovely if so oversized and lavish a spectacle were held when there was a hope of benign weather. Instead, it’s an annual challenge, our gritty Yankee street game—Mummers vs. Mother Nature. Both show up in full regalia and do battle from dawn to dark. The contest generally ends in a tie.

  But this isn’t something else to blame on Philadelphia, something the city could arbitrarily change. “It has to be now,” I said.

  “Why?” Karen asked.

  Mackenzie cringed. Or maybe it was only the cold that put the crease between his eyebrows and made him say, “Not again.”

  I ignored him and turned toward Karen. “Because mumming has roots back a thousand years or more,” I said. “The Druids made noise to scare off demons in the dark part of the year. People in different parts of Europe wore masks and costumes—in fact mumme means mask or disguise in German. They gave plays for their neighbors, all at the time when the old year was dying.”

  Mackenzie slumped as if his backbone had abruptly dissolved.

  Why had I suggested this outing? As I recalled, it followed a heated debate over whose parade was better. This was based on pure hometown boosterism, given that neither one of us had ever actually seen the other’s event.

  But Mardi Gras gets such excessive PR, I had virtually spectated.

  “Obviously,” Mackenzie had said, “Mardi Gras is better known because it’s better.”

  I had to educate him. “Wrong. Mardi Gras is a capital S social event—as in Society. It’s status to belong to a certain Krewe, and I’m sure not just anybody can join. The Mummers put on as spectacular a production—but they’re working class and always have been. This is a folk celebration, not chronicled in the Society pages. These are people who don’t keep detailed records of their every move or declare that there’s a pecking order of social correctness within their clubs. There are rivalries—good natured and based on skill or success or style, and the members have to like a new guy before he’s accepted, he needs to be sponsored, to come to a few meetings—”

  “So it’s a closed world, too.”

  I shrugged. He was correct, but it was a different sort of closed universe, and there was still a vast difference. And so I had dared Mackenzie to a parade exchange. As a bonus, I tossed the detective a professional incentive, the question of what had become of one Theodore Serfi.

  The Tuesday before Christmas Serfi had attended a weekly meeting of his Fancy Club, then disappeared without a trace. Since then, there’d been persistent rumors that he was now being served as a pasta topping, an ingredient in a rival family’s blood sausage. Bus and billboard ads for King’s Sausage had been unofficially augmented, so that they now read Whose Blood is in King’s Sausage? The understood, if unverified, answer was Ted Serfi.

  I had a different theory. “Years ago,” I told Mackenzie, “Mummers kidnapped men and held them hostage until New Year’s morning, when they’d make their captives march with them. Maybe Serfi will reappear with a new brigade. Maybe this is a gimmick, a historical reminder.”

  Mackenzie thought Ted Serfi, who was reputed to have been “connected,” had been “Hoffa’d,” as he put it, and at any rate, was a missing person and not a homicide detective’s concern. But in a show of good will, he’d said that if Ted Serfi came strutting along, prisoner of a rival brigade, he’d be happy to apologize for his cynicism.

  Another reason for my attending was an article I was writing about the Mummers. Correction: an article I intended to write. As faculty advisor to the school newspaper, I was dared by the editor-in-chief to verify or disprove the expression, “Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.” He was writing a feature about our faculty, based on that dreadful maxim, so what could I do but accept the challenge? I, too, would commit journalism. I would write and sell an article of my own.

  Although I’d already prepared my Pulitzer acceptance speech, I actually hadn’t yet had time to write more than notes. What I had done instead was share each interesting factoid I discovered. In the course of doing so, I also discovered that Mackenzie and I did not always agree on what was interesting and what was not.

  Even as I watched a ribbon-bedecked passel of comics strut by, I had three-by-five cards at the ready. Unfortunately, it was too chilly and complicated to take off my mittens and retrieve the cards from my bag.

  “Are those men Druids?” Karen asked.

  “Aunt Mandy will answer all your questions in her article,” Mackenzie said. “That is, when she finishes it. Which will, of course, be some time after she begins it.”

  “Your mean streak is wider than Broad Street, Comus.” I gestured at the parade route.

  “M
ean?” Mackenzie said. “Comus?”

  A year and a half of guessing what the damned C.K. stood for, and I was no closer. “Comus was the god of revelry. Of mirth. Song, dance, and wine. But you’re too mean to have that name.”

  “He isn’t mean,” Karen said.

  He wasn’t either mean or Comus, simply the unbearable sort who did what he said he was going to and who thought everybody else should do the same. He expected me to write the article, wanted me to because I said I was going to and because I wanted to. And he knew I was afraid to actually do it, to risk proving that nasty adage true. And so he tweaked and poked, and I acted outraged and found excuses galore, and the article continued to pend.

  “Are they Druids, Aunt Mandy?” Karen asked again, giving me a reprieve.

  “No, but they might be the great-great-how-many-great-grandsons of Druids. And of a whole lot of other people who brought their New Year traditions to the new country. The Finns masqueraded, and the Swedes started the year by shooting off guns—in fact, the people we call Mummers really call themselves Shooters.”

  “But they will not be shooting today,” Mackenzie said. “They don’t do that anymore. Haven’t for a long time.”

  Karen looked relieved.

  “The English put on a Mummers’ Play, Scotch-Irish men dressed in women’s clothing—”

  “Like that,” Karen said, pointing at a male comic dressed in the traditional Wench style, with a flouncy dress, golden shoes, and long pigtails. She and her male counterpart, The Dude in a sequin-trimmed tuxedo, were out of the minstrel show tradition, but Mackenzie shot me a look and I didn’t say that out loud. Instead, I stayed with the European influences. “As I was saying, the Germans wore masks and disguises, including one as an early kind of Santa, called a Belsnickle.”

  “He was one mean Santa,” Mackenzie said.