AHMM, May 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Hurrying up to her, he took hold hand and asked, “Is something else wrong?”

  “Now listen, Wes, I don't want you to scream or yell or hop around like a chicken without its hat. But—”

  “Without its head,” he corrected. “Are you okay?”

  “I've been waiting out here to prepare you for some, well, probably unsettling news.”

  “You've found out what's happened to your mother?”

  “No, nope, there's still no word of her.” Casey started leading him toward their house.

  From inside piano music started.

  Bebop, he realized, wincing.

  He took a step away from his wife, gestured at the beach house, and asked, “Does your sister Kate play bebop piano?”

  “Kate isn't a bit musical. Actually it's—”

  “Your damn father! That's none other than Erle Stanley McLeod inside there, defiling the sanctity of our home and playing his insipid version of a Thelonius Monk standard on our upright piano.”

  Taking hold of her husband's arm, she tugged him in the direction of the open front door. “He means well,” she said quietly.

  “The last time we encountered your dear old dad,” Wes reminded her, “he involved us in one of his illegal ventures, and you got us kidnapped. What does he intend to drag us into now?”

  “This is sort of a family thing, dear.”

  “That's even more ominous, since your family seems to consist entirely of con men, grifters, poltroons, thieves, and—”

  “Wait now, Wes. You can't make a generalization like that when you haven't even met them all.”

  He stopped still on the doorstep. “There are more of them? Are they all planning to move in with us?”

  “My Dad showed up to help us rescue my mom,” Casey explained, getting him moving in the direction of the open doorway. “Soon as he heard about her plight, he rushed here to lend a helping hand.”

  “Where's he been? Conning a widow out of her mite? Looting an orphans’ home?”

  “Wesley, my boy, good to see you once again,” Casey's father said cordially from the threshold. “Come on in and we can get rolling on a plan to extricate my erstwhile wife from her current troubles.”

  * * * *

  “Does anybody mind if I smoke?” asked Casey's father. He was a tall, lean, dapper man in his mid sixties. From the pocket of his blazer he was extracting a somewhat woebegone pipe.

  “Yes, don't.” Wes was sitting, tensely, on the sofa beside his wife.

  “No smoking in the house, Dad,” Casey added.

  He shrugged, dropped the pipe away and resumed pacing the living room. “Smoking helps me think, but it can't be helped.” He stopped near the armchair where his other daughter was sitting. “I realize, my dear, that I haven't seen you in a few years,” he told her. “Yet I feel something about your appearance has changed.”

  “It's been nine years since last we met.” Kate tapped the side of her nose.

  “I had plastic surgery a couple months ago. So I'd have a nose approximating that of Melody Gormley.”

  He studied his daughter, eyes narrowed, before nodding. “Hmm. Yes, a decided improvement, Katy.”

  “And probably useless, since the whole job is—”

  “Come now, child,” admonished her father as he recommenced his pacing. “Mustn't give up the ship. It may still be quite possible to pass you off as the Gormley heiress and—”

  “Whoa now,” cut in Wes, leaning forward and raising his voice. “If you two want to plot out a way to carry on with your ex-wife's scam, go conspire someplace else.”

  Casey added, “We just want to help find Mom. So let's only talk about that.” She pointed at her sister. “Kate thinks she was abducted by somebody who's been planning to work a similar con on Gormley.”

  “Well, of course she was. “McLeod took out his pipe, tapped the bowl on his palm three times, and dropped it away again. “That's why I took the risk of coming here, even though I would much prefer to stay away from Los Angeles. Between disgruntled former associates and assorted minions of the law, I—”

  “Father heard about what happened up here,” said Kate, “while he was down in—”

  “While I was out of the country,” he said, coughing once. “To return to my narrative. An unsavory acquaintance of mine had picked up some news of your mother's situation by way of the grapevine. It seems a notorious chap named E. Jack Bastian, better known in certain shady venues as Bastian the Bastard, wanted to prevent dear Helena from foisting Kate off onto Gormley as his wayward daughter.”

  Wes asked, “This guy Bastian is planning to pass his own spurious Melody Gormley onto him?”

  “That's it,” confirmed Kate. “Mother and I found out that Bastian's been training his own faux heiress for over six months and is just about ready to present her to the old man.”

  Casey frowned. “So it was Bastian who snatched Mom to keep her from getting there first?”

  “That's the word I got too,” said her father. “Katy and I have compared notes and we agree that Bastian is the man behind the grabbing my dear former wife.”

  “We heard from a man who supplies mother with information now and then that Bastian was planning to send us a warning to back off,” added Kate. “The night she was taken out of the Brentwood place. I just happened to be elsewhere. Otherwise, they would have grabbed me too.”

  Casey took hold of her husband's hand. “I'd guess somebody who's earned the name of Bastian the Bastard,” she said, “is going to treat Mom any too kindly.”

  McLeod gave a confirming nod. “Initially he'll hold your mother until his con is a success. He snatched her to keep her from screwing up his plans,” he said. “However, Casey Ann, if something goes wrong, well, he's a lad also known for simply tossing somebody in the Pacific in a sack full of bricks.”

  “Do you have any idea where Bastian is at the moment?” asked Wes.

  “I am in the process of utilizing my many contacts in the seamy underside of Greater Los Angeles to determine Bastian's current location.”

  “Okay, once that happens,” suggested Wes, “all we have to do is contact the police and pass the information along. Then they can rescue Mrs. McLeod, charge the guy with kidnapping, and—”

  “No, that won't work,” Casey pointed out. “They'll rescue her, sure, but then they'll toss her in the pokey for that other crooked job they're after Mom for.”

  Erle Stanley McLeod said, “All we have to do is work out a virtually foolproof plan. One in which each and every one of us will take part.”

  “Right. Fun for the whole family,” observed Wes with a minimum of enthusiasm.

  * * * *

  The Gormley estate covered at least three hillside acres in the Sombra Canyon high above Hollywood. A crisp wind had blown away most of the fog and the afternoon sky was a faint yellow-tinted blue.

  Erle Stanley McLeod braked his borrowed gray Jaguar just shy of the high wrought-iron gates that surrounded the place. “Stay put, my dear,” he said to Kate. “I'll announce our advent.” He opened his door, lowered his left leg to the white gravel drive.

  “You think I'll pass muster?” asked Kate, stretching up to examine herself more closely in the rearview mirror.

  “You are a spitting image of the long lost Melody Gormley as she might well look today,” he assured her as he got completely out of the car. He took a few steps ahead to poke at a button on the intercom mounted in a hamstone wall.

  A slightly brittle voice inquired, “What is your business, please?”

  Adopting a Boston voice, Erle began, “Ahum . . . I am Professor Willis Kingsley Murray of Boston College in Cambridge. I'm an archeologist, and I do believe I have some news that Mr. Gormley will be profoundly interested in.”

  “Such as?”

  “His long lost daughter, Miss Melody Gormley, has, I am convinced, been found at long last,” Erle told the machine, with excitement showing in his voice. “Further more, let me hasten to inform that I have t
he prodigal young lady with me.”

  “Have you indeed? Ah, I'm certain Mr. Gormley will be delighted to see you, I'll open the gates and you may drive right in. Park to the left of the garage complex, Professor Murray.”

  A sort of mechanical raspberry sound followed. The iron gates, rattling faintly, opened inward.

  As Erle Standley McLeod climbed back into the car, a stray parakeet fluttered out of the afternoon to perch atop the slowly opening gates. “Beverly Hills,” said Kate. “They even have wild parakeets.”

  The acre of buzz-cut sparkling green lawn they had to traverse before reaching the huge Morrocan-style mansion was dotted with huge metallic sculptures.

  “What the hell are those hideous objects?” asked Erle.

  “Contemporary art,” replied his daughter. “Gigantic replicas of some of the Gormley's bestselling gadgets. That big thing over yonder is a laptop. That thing those gray squirrels are cavorting on is a ten-foot-high GormTech Smartfone.”

  The gray-haired butler who answered their knock with the lion's head brass knocker was a thin, immaculately groomed man in his fifties. “Ah, Professor Murray, Mr. Gormley is most anxious to see you. Most especially you, Miss Melody. And welcome back.” He opened a door on the left side of the hall. “If you'll just wait here in the parlor.”

  Sitting on one of the two facing sofas were a young woman and thickset man, with a fringe of blond hair, worn long. The young woman looked quite bit like Kate.

  The butler gestured first at the seated young woman with an upturned palm. Then gestured at Kate in the doorway. “Miss Melody Gormley,” he said in his slightly brittle voice, “Meet Miss Melody Gormley.”

  * * * *

  As they crouched down in the hillside woodlands and looked across the knee-high acre of grass that backed the rear of the three-story Victorian mansion in Sombra Canyon, Casey observed, “Gee, what a dissipated old house.”

  “Dilapidated,” corrected Wes, lifting his binoculars to his eyes. “Way back when, Klaus Nordsman used to live here.”

  “Whoever he was, he wasn't a very good housekeeper.” I sure hope my mother is in there.”

  “According to your father, she may well be. And we know he's always at least ninety-five percent truthful at all times.”

  “Hey,” said Casey, “I have mixed feelings about him, but I'm hoping that he's reforming.”

  “Hush,” he suggested, lowering his voice.

  “What's up?”

  Handing her the glasses, he nodded toward the ramshackle mansion. “Somebody is dumping garbage in that galvanized can on the back porch.”

  “That's some housekeeper,” Casey said, squinting through the eyepieces. “Butt-hugging scarlet mini-shorts and a very sparse halter. And that looks like a very pricey red wig.”

  “I noticed. Could she be the ladyfriend of the gentleman of the house?”

  Casey said. “We've got to get closer to that tacky mansion if we're going to find out if Mom is locked up there”

  “We'll have to wait until night falls.”

  “And if she is, then what?”

  “Depends on how many jailers she has.” He tapped his jacket pocket. “I borrowed a pistol from Filchock. It's a .38.”

  In the small forest behind them leaves rustled, branches creaked, and a scatter of birds took flight.

  “I say, folks, I wonder if you'd mid standing up, raising your hands, and coming along with me to the manse down below,” requested a voice behind them.

  “Oops,” observed Wes, rising and complying.

  A lean, lanky man in a faded blue running suit had apparently crept down behind them through the woods. He was pointing not one but two .45 automatics at Wes and Casey.

  “Mr. Bastian,” began Casey, “we're collecting plant samples for our botany class at Adult Ed and it wasn't until you snuck up on us that we realized we were—”

  “Not a bad try, Miss Casey,” the man with the guns conceded. “But we have a complete dossier on you in one of our computers, including a couple of cheesecake photos in some girlie mags from the late 1990s.”

  “Did you do stuff like that?” Wes asked his wife. “You never told me.”

  “It wasn't for a girlie magazine. It was in a sports magazine's swim suit issue. I was fully clothed in a yellow bikini.”

  “Folks, folks, I'm not Doctor Phil. Settle your domestic squabbles elsewhere,” the lanky man suggested. “Oh, and by the way, I'm not Mr. Bastian, merely one of his toadies, name of Chip. And let me warn you that my instructions are to shoot to kill should you attempt to run.”

  “We won't attempt to,” Wes assured him.

  They descended across the windswept grass.

  * * * *

  The door came open with a vigorous flap and Gormley came in as though propelled into the immense parlor by a heavy gust of wind. Taking smaller and smaller steps, he stopped his lurch on a spot midway between before the facing couches.

  Erle was on his feet, fishing a business card out of the breast pocket of his professorly coat. “Mr. Gormley. Permit me to—”

  At the same time Bastian had popped up and was tugging out a leather wallet out of his hip pocket. “Mr. Gormley, sir, I am Balthazar Grimes of the—”

  “Silence, you scoundrels!” commanded the tech tycoon in a relatively calm voice. “You,” he said pointing a Bastian, “are not anyone with the ludicrous name of Balthazar Grimes. You happen to be in reality a master flimflam artist known in flimflam circles as Bastian the Bastard.”

  “On the contrary, sir, I am one of the most respected private—”

  “And you, while a shade more presentable than this one,” cut in Gormley in a rising voice, “are Erle Staley McLeod. Well, I am, in a way, flattered that you two chose to hustle me at one and the same time.”

  “You've mistaken me for this disreputable McLeod, but . . .”

  “Pop, the game's up,” suggested Kate, tugging at his pants leg. “Sit yourself down.” When he had, she addressed Gormley. “As I see it, sir, we haven't done anything so far that's strictly illegal. It's not a crime to have plastic surgery to improve one's looks or to sympathize with someone for losing his only child.”

  Gormley's puffy round face was losing much of its purplish tint and returning to its fat-man pink. “True,” he admitted, “but quite a few law enforcement agencies frown on the activities of rogues like you.”

  “We promise never to darken your door again.”

  After a thoughtful moment, he said “I'd actually hate to go through all the trouble of having you prosecuted. Trials, hearings, paying my lawyers two grand an hour.”

  Bastian, looking extremely glum, said, “We, too, will silently steal away.”

  Smiling, Gormley told them, “You might like to know that neither of these young ladies would have passed the test. Melody has a telltale mark on her backside that only I know of.”

  “Damnation,” muttered Erle, “faulty research on your mother's part, Katy.”

  The young woman who was Bastian's contender for the part of the lost daughter, got slowly up. “Thank God I didn't have plastic surgery.”

  The tycoon said, “Well, then, one and all, I suggest that you scram now and don't—”

  “Sir,” said the butler, coming again into the room, “There's a Miss Melody Gormley to see you.”

  * * * *

  Casey's reunion with her mother was not much of a joyous occasion. When Chip opened the thick door to the cellar room where Wes and Casey were to be kept until Bastian returned, a female voice from within the dim-lit room called out, “When in the hell are you going to feed me, you loon?”

  Opening the door wider, Chip said, “It isn't the dinner hour for another hour at least, dearie. And I've been too busy to whip up a high tea.”

  “Unnatural punishment.”

  “We don't subscribe to the Geneva Conventions.” By that time he'd herded Casey and her husband across the cement floor of the stone-walled cellar.

  “And the tap water is no good.
It tastes like—”

  “Hello, Mom.” Casey took a few tentative steps in the direction of the slim, gray-haired woman.

  “How's that again?”

  Wes, now truly ticked off, said, “It's your daughter, for Christ sake, and if we hadn't been trying to spring you from this hole, we wouldn't be sharing it with you now.”

  Helena Dart McLeod studied Casey. She reached out and put her hands on her shoulders. “You've turned into quite a beauty, Casey Ann,” she decided. “You were scruffy and drab as a child. Kate was the pretty one.”

  Backing to the doorway, Chip said, “Family reunions always make me cry, folks. I'll see about coming up with dinners for three now.”

  Mrs. McLeod, somewhat reluctantly Casey thought, hugged her. “This is a reunion in a way, Casey. I am glad we finally got ourselves reunited.”

  “About time you finally got around to it.” Wes began to pace the cellar floor, then stopped at the trunks and suitcases stacked against the far stonewall.

  “Who is this rude young man?” asked the fortune teller, indicating Wes with a jerk of her thumb.

  Casey, stepping back, said, “This is my husband, Wes Goodhill. He's a very talented animator for a major cartoon outfit in Studio City. We've been married for almost three years.”

  “So you're Casey Goodhill now? Well, I suppose it couldn't be helped,” her mother said. “I do wish someone had notified me.”

  Wes asked, “Where would we have sent the wedding invitation. To Anytown, USA?”

  Casey proposed, “What say we try to get out of here before Bastian comes back from wherever he is?”

  Wes, very quietly, opened the nearest humpback trunk. “Ah, appears this guy Klaus Nordsman was sports minded. Quite a collection of equipment that can be converted to unconventional weapons.”

  “What are you planning to do,” asked Casey as she joined him trunkside, “beat him in a few sets of tennis?”

  He didn't respond, instead lifting out first a wooden baseball bat, then a croquet mallet. He gave her the bat. “Here, try a few practice swings, Case.”

  Mrs. McLeod seated herself atop a flat steamer trunk. “This fellow made a hell of a lot of trips to Hawaii,” she said. “How are you going to cold cock Chip?”