The Reluctant Detective

by Finley Martin

  “It’s too late.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I already called them.”

  “What… what did you say? Did you tell them that I’d take it… without asking me?” Anne’s voice rose in pitch, and her back had stiffened. She leaned forward. Confusion and hurt clouded her face.

  “Relax, I told them you weren’t suited for it,” Ben added.

  “And what did you mean by that? You don’t think I could handle a management job!” she said, now growing angry. She looked at Sarah for support. Sarah simply shrugged. Mary Anne had joined them but, sensing the untimeliness of her arrival, she shrank back in silence and settled next to Jacqui.

  “No, I told the chief that you were too sharp a detective to waste your talents pushing papers from one corner of your desk to the other.”

  “You did?”

  “Of course, what else could I tell ’em? The truth?”

  Anne reached across the table and slapped his arm.

  “I want the truth,” she said. “Is that it or not?”

  Ben just nodded. Then he added: “Oh! I’ve got something for you.” He grabbed for something in the side pocket of his suit jacket and put it into her hand.

  “My wedding ring,” she said. “I thought it was gone forever.”

  “I asked the clean-up crew at MacLaren’s to look around for it. It was under the broken glass of that cabinet you dumped on your client.”

  “Thanks, Ben.” Tears came to her eyes for the second time that day as she undid the chain around her neck and slipped the wedding band onto it. “Thanks,” she said again.

  “So, what are your plans?” he asked softly.

  “I’m keeping Darby Investigations and Security going. I’ve already made enough to bankroll us for a few months. It’s what I think Uncle Billy would have wanted, and I know now that it’s what I want as well. I’ve made a few mistakes… but I’ve done some good. That’s a feeling you don’t get in most jobs,” she said reflectively. For a moment she became lost in her own thoughts. Then she brightened.

  “Tomorrow, however, Jacqui and I are going to Halifax to visit Dit and, believe it or not, I’ve talked Eli and Urban into coming along on our road trip as well. They miss Dit, too.”

  “That calls for a celebratory toast,” said Mary Anne. “Drinks on the house.”

  Mary Anne rushed off and back with a tray of drinks and passed them out. She looked around for Jacqui.

  “Where’s Jacqui?”

  “Washroom,” said Anne. “By the way, what deep, dark secrets were you two sharing a while ago?”

  “Oh… Jacqui was curious about how I got the name for The Blue Peter. She said some of her friends think it’s pornographic.”

  “Did you tell her?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, tell me. I’ve always been afraid to ask. Is it pornographic?”

  “No, no, no,” said Mary Anne, somewhat offended. “See that flag on the wall… the blue one with the white square in the middle. It’s called ‘the blue peter.’”

  Mary Anne drew blank stares from everyone around the table.

  “I see,” Mary Anne said, “and how many years have you all been comin’ here? Okay, here’s the story. That flag is a nautical flag. It’s the international signal for the letter ‘P.’ It’s also the signal flag the crew raises up when their ship is about to leave port and start a new voyage. That flag on the wall was my father’s. He was a ship’s captain between wars. Freighters and passenger vessels. On his last voyage he took that flag from the storage locker and brought it home with him. He said he may be too old to sail, but he wasn’t too old to live. That flag helped remind him of that… and it mirrored how I felt when I first opened the restaurant and lounge. Just after Jeff and I broke up. For me it meant a new start on my own life, a new adventure… wherever that may take me.”

  Mary Anne’s words struck a common chord among all the guests at the table. Each of them momentarily drifted away in reflection. Beginnings past and beginnings yet to come floated in their minds; visions and revisions swelled and fell away; their successes and failures butted against one other. Finally, Anne broke through the silence.

  “A toast,” said Anne raising her glass. “The past may be carved in stone, but the future’s our own to shape. To beginnings which are promising, then. To ventures which are happy… and to the good friends who comfort us when we fail and share with us when we succeed…”

  “… or more simply put,” she added, “here’s to The Blue Peter.”

  Acknowledgements

  My first outline for this novel followed the exploits of a male protagonist, but something about that choice just didn’t stand up. I played with it a bit more. That didn’t help. Eventually my search took me to more remote possibilities, one of them being a female detective. That tack seemed as if it would be more interesting. So I began to write.

  When I was about thirty pages into the first draft, though, I became somewhat uncomfortable. After forty pages my hands grew clammy. After fifty pages, I began to hear voices I hadn’t scripted. They were women’s voices. I had no idea who they were. I had no idea where they were.

  “No,” said the first, “he doesn’t know the first thing about women.”

  “So, why is he doing this?” said the second.

  “Probably some kind of creative aberration ... or constipation,” she giggled.

  “First stages of mental breakdown, more likely,” said the other, and laughed.

  I would have piped in and explained that I was getting expert advice from my wife, Brenda, and my daughter, Arja Page, about what-if-this and what-if-that happened to my Anne Brown character, but my speaking up would only have reinforced the “mental breakdown” theory of the two women. Instead I did the next best thing. I told no one about the voices I heard, and I mailed the opening chapters to my friend and fellow writer, Marion Bruce. I added a note:

  “Before I spend the next year or two behind a typewriter in my basement, please tell me: Am I in over my head? Should I hang onto my day job? Turn to poetry? Or, God forbid, p.r. writing again?”

  At the time, Marion was absorbed in a marathon viewing of the1970’s TV series, Kung Fu, starring David Carridine and Keye Luke. After she had finished, she wrote back:

  “Young Grasshopper, truths have only one gender, and genders have but one humanity. One finds both truth and fiction in every mirror, and your dream becomes the path you choose to walk down.”

  I was both relieved and inspired by her encouragement. Thanks, Marion, and Mea culpa for my fanciful interpretation of your words.

  Thanks to Terrilee Bulger and The Acorn Press for their faith in and enthusiasm for my novel.

  Thanks to my editor, Sherie Hodds, for her tact, sharp eyes, and valued suggestions. Her efforts went a long way toward clarifying and smoothing the narrative.

  Thanks to Laurie Brinklow for running a fine-toothed comb through it.

  Thanks to Matt Reid for great cover art.

  Finally, thanks to my son, Finley M. Martin, for reading the manuscript and sharing a fresh perspective.