Adrien English Mysteries: Fatal Shadows & A Dangerous Thing

by Josh Lanyon

  I paced around, tried calling Claude. There was still no answer. I considered driving over there -- I’d have liked the company -- but I was too skittish to face the alley on my own.

  Finally I fixed another cup of Ovaltine and curled on the sofa, rewinding The Black Swan.

  * * * * *

  By the next morning that indefinable bad smell in the shop had become a decidedly putrid stink.

  “It smells like something died in here,” Angus complained.

  I don’t know why it didn’t click until then. I slammed down my coffee cup and hauled ass back to the office where I started shifting boxes, pulling stuff off the metal shelves.

  “What’s wrong?” Angus inquired from the doorway.

  “Help me lift this.”

  Gingerly he picked his way through the rubble, helping me lower an old trunk with a broken lock to the floor.

  The stench of decay was practically overpowering.

  “Shit, man,” Angus breathed. “There are ants everywhere.” He wiped his hands on his 501s and stared at me. His eyes looked huge behind the specs.

  I opened the trunk. There was a dead cat and many, many ants.

  I closed the trunk.

  Angus brushed by me. I could hear him vomiting in the bathroom off the office. After a moment I realized I was just standing there rubbing my hand across my mouth, listening to Angus. I phoned the police. By now I had the number memorized. The squad car showed up followed shortly by Chan and Riordan.

  “Somebody doesn’t like you, Mr. English,” one of the uniforms remarked, closing his notepad on my second complaint in twenty-four hours.

  They nodded in passing to Chan and Riordan.

  “What’s up?” Riordan asked.

  “Someone put a dead cat in the trunk in my office.”

  Riordan and Chan exchanged The Look.

  “Who?” Chan asked.

  “Who? Is that a routine question? How do I know who? The same person who sent me black flowers and a sympathy card, and broke into my shop, and was skulking around the alley last night!”

  “Am I missing something here?” Riordan asked his partner. Chan reached for a cigarette then recalled himself. He started patting his pockets for gum.

  “If people would be candid to start with, it would help,” Chan returned.

  I gave an incredulous laugh. “I’m not being candid? I am a victim here. I am being stalked.”

  “Run that by me again,” Riordan requested.

  Actually until I put it into words the notion was nebulous, half-formed, but now I found myself stubbornly clinging to it. “I am being stalked.”

  “Who do you think is stalking you, Mr. English?” Chan asked politely, unwrapping a stick of gum.

  “Whoever killed Robert.” I caught sight of Angus loitering palely behind them. “Come upstairs. I have to show you something.”

  They followed me upstairs in silence. I could imagine the long-suffering looks exchanged behind my back.

  In my living quarters I showed them Rob’s yearbook. I told them what Tara had said about Robert asking her to mail it to him right before his death. I turned to the page with the Chess Club and pointed out Rusty. I explained about his taking a walk out a hotel window.

  “I think his death might be related. Maybe he didn’t kill himself.”

  “You’re suggesting that someone killed Corday?” Chan was still neutral.

  “I’m not sure what I’m suggesting. It’s not impossible, is it?”

  “Hard to say without seeing the police report,” Riordan said.

  Chan did a kind of double take in his partner’s direction. “Mr. English,” he said carefully, one eye on his partner, “What possible motive do you believe someone would have for killing members of your high school Chess Club?”

  “I’ve no idea. I didn’t participate in the Chess Club that long. But maybe one of the surviving members would know.”

  “Surviving members? Do you have some reason to believe something has happened to the other members?”

  “Well, no, but isn’t this too much of a coincidence?” I glanced at Riordan. He was looking around my living room curiously. I wasn’t sure what he found so interesting -- it would have been nice if he’d paid attention to what I was saying.

  “No, not really, Mr. English,” Chan answered. “In any high school graduation class there’s going to be a number of deaths, suicides, even homicides by the time your tenth reunion rolls around. It’s the law of averages.”

  “Whatever. What about this?” I thrust the “In Sympathy” card at Riordan, who seemed to recall himself.

  He glanced at me under his brows, took the card, read it. He turned it over. Handed it to Chan. Said gravely, “It’s not a Hallmark.”

  I grabbed the card from Chan, bending it in the process. “This is just one big fucking joke to you, isn’t it? Well, it’s my life being threatened. Robert is dead, remember, Detectives?”

  “Calm down, for Chrissake,” Riordan muttered. He took the card back from me. “No one has threatened your life, have they?”

  “It’s implied by this card, by funeral flowers. Are you telling me it’s not against the law to leave a dead animal on someone’s property? That it’s not illegal to break into someone’s business? Obviously whoever burglarized my shop left this dead cat --”

  “It’s harassment, certainly,” Chan agreed.

  “Harassment!” I heard my voice shoot up like the Vienna Boys choir, and Riordan’s eyebrows rose with it.

  “Look, Mr. English,” Chan began plaintively, “try to see it from our point.”

  “Oh, I get it.” I stopped cold. “You still think I could be doing this to myself. That I’m trying to throw you off my trail. Red herrings, right?”

  Chan interjected smoothly, “That’s a good point, Mr. English. This book of yours that’s going to be published; it’s about a man who stabs to death an old friend, isn’t it?”

  I blinked once or twice. These two really did their homework. They must have learned about my book when they questioned the rest of the writing group -- and really, the fact that they had questioned the writing group when Rob had spent so little time in it, had to be significant. They had to believe that either Claude or I was guilty.

  “Actually, it’s about a man who finds out who stabbed to death an old friend. He’s an amateur sleuth.”

  “He’s a homosexual.” Thus spake Riordan. The kind of guy who probably slept in flannel sheets patterned with bears and pine trees and tiny lassos. A scratch-and-sniff-hygiene Real Man kind of guy. The kind of guy who circled the Chuck Norris marathon in the TV guide.

  “You seem obsessed with my sexuality, Detective.”

  Something dark and shadowy slid across his eyes. I decided I didn’t want to piss him off too much.

  “Who identified Robert’s body?” I asked suddenly.

  “His wife.”

  “Tara? When?”

  “She was here in LA when it happened,” Riordan replied. “They were working on getting back together.”

  My jaw must have dropped. Chan stated the obvious. “You didn’t know?”

  “No.”

  Riordan, still holding the sympathy card, was running the edge underneath his thumbnail. He queried amiably, “Are you aware that Mrs. Hersey is the sole beneficiary of the million-dollar insurance policy left by Robert Hersey?”

  “T-Tara?” I stammered. “Tara is Robert’s beneficiary?”

  Riordan looked at me and smiled oddly. “You didn’t know.”

  “This is strictly confidential, Mr. English,” Chan warned.

  No it’s not, I thought. This is another trap of some kind.

  “Your life is not in danger, English,” Riordan drawled.

  I could feel myself turning red with anger.

  “Did you actually bother to check out the florist?”

  Riordan sighed. “Yes. The flowers came from the Conroy’s on Balboa. It’s a busy place. They were paid for in cash and no one remembers an
ything about the purchaser.”

  “So that’s it? Did you bother showing pictures of anyone in case it jogged --”

  “Pictures of who?” Riordan snapped. His anger was unexpected. “Yeah, as a matter of fact we showed your picture. Nobody remembered you.”

  Chan blew a gum bubble. Popped it. “Hersey’s flowers came from the same place. One dozen red roses paid in cash. You got the deluxe arrangement, English.”

  “Lucky me. A stalker with good taste.”

  “Did Robert receive a card?” Riordan questioned.

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

  “What did he say? Did he seem nervous, preoccupied?”

  “No.”

  “So he didn’t feel threatened? Stalked?”

  I stared at them.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Riordan said.

  Chapter Nine

  I couldn’t find anything to wear. Laundry had not been a major priority the last few days, and as I dug through the hamper seeking something I could iron into presentability I realized that Robert’s death had put my own life on hold. It was like being shot but waiting to hear the crack of the rifle before you fell down.

  I hadn’t worked on my new book in over a week. In fact already the threads of plot seemed to be unraveling in my brain. I was afraid to look at the damn thing. And why had I ever thought of centering the plot around Titus Andronicus? I hate that play.

  I had a stack of phone messages I hadn’t answered, and so many DOROTHYL digests in my e-mail it was a wonder I hadn’t crashed my computer. And, in case I wasn’t feeling harassed enough, Jean and Ted were hounding me about putting out the bookstore newsletter the group had been discussing for the past six months. My feeble excuses were brushed aside and I was being dragged over to the Finches with the bribe of dinner.

  “I know you, Adrien,” Jean had said when she’d phoned a couple of hours earlier. “You’re probably living on coffee and minute rice.”

  Hey, if God had intended me to cook he wouldn’t have created Trader Joe’s.

  “Jean, you’re confusing me with the helpless heterosexual male.”

  Jean just laughed. She’s the most easygoing woman writer I’ve ever met.

  Since my friends insisted on rallying round, the least I could do was wear a clean shirt.

  In the end I had to settle for a white T-shirt under a black blazer and a pair of black jeans that I’d quit wearing because they made me feel I should be out waving down cars on Santa Monica Boulevard, except that they were too tight to walk in.

  “Ooh, don’t you look handsome,” Jean chirped when Ted ushered me into their kitchen about forty-five minutes later.

  Ted shoved a glass of red wine into my hand. “Good for the heart,” he said, and gave my shoulder a nudge with his own.

  I like Jean and Ted, don’t get me wrong, but a little bit does go a long way. In their manuscript, Murder He Mimed, they have a gay character, Avery Oxford. Avery is thirty-two, single, with black hair and blue eyes and my wardrobe right down to my BVDs, which, in point of fact, Jean quizzed me about: “Do Gay Men Prefer Boxers or Briefs?” Every time I give an opinion I can see Jean perking up, taking mental notes. I’m terrified some day some fool may actually publish their magnum opus and Avery Oxford will be let loose as the quintessential gay stereotype.

  “How are you holding up?” Jean asked, turning the heat off on the stove.

  “I’m holding up.” I sipped my wine, an unexpectedly smooth merlot.

  Ted brought Jean a platter and she began spearing pork chops out of the pan. I was struck by their concord. I’ve never met any two people that seemed more truly two halves of one whole. The fact that they looked like fraternal twins heightened the effect.

  “Gosh, it’s sad,” Jean said as Ted whisked the platter past me into the dining room alcove. “Robert was such a vibrant person. So ... alive.”

  “Yes.” I half-drained my wine glass. I really didn’t want to think about Rob for one evening. “I’m sorry about the police. I hear they’ve been asking more questions.”

  Jean laughed. “Really, that’s been kind of helpful. Getting to watch detectives on the job.”

  “What kinds of things did they ask you?”

  Jean went over to the fridge. She sounded vague. “Oh, you know. The same kind of stuff they asked you, probably.”

  “They asked about Claude,” Ted offered from the alcove. He was lighting candles on the dining room table.

  “What’s that? Oh.” Jean took the salad out of the fridge. “Well, Claude. He is pretty emotional. Some of the things he says, you might think -- I mean, I know he wouldn’t hurt a fly, but if you don’t know him you might think he’s a violent person.”

  “Can I do anything to help?”

  Jean smiled, shook her head, cocking her ear for Ted’s next words. When none were forthcoming she called, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Max?”

  “Exactly.”

  I asked, “What about Max?”

  Jean shooed me off into the dining room with one hand. With the other she balanced the salad bowl, waitress style. “Don’t be shy, Adrien. Just sit anywhere.”

  I stepped into the alcove. One wall was solid books; the entire top shelf of the bookcase was lined with How to Writes. This was one of those small Westwood apartments made functional and attractive with the help of the local Ikea and gallons of peach and coral paint. Jean called it the “Southwest Look,” and stuck cactus plants in every corner. I nearly backed into one as I made room for her to set the salad on the table.

  “What do you think, Adrien?” Ted inquired as I sat.

  I shook out an apricot colored napkin. “About what?”

  “Max’s homophobia. Do you think he could have killed Robert?”

  It was clearly an academic question to them. I found that a bit scary. As scary as the notion that someone might want to kill me because of whom I’d slept with.

  “Is Max a homophobe?”

  “Of course,” Jean stated unequivocally. She hopped up and disappeared into the tiny kitchen. “He hated Robert. Hated him.”

  “Well,” Ted hedged. “Maybe homophobe is too strong. He doesn’t hate you.”

  “He just thinks you’re seriously screwed up,” Jean volunteered.

  I wished I hadn’t come to dinner.

  “You’re not eating,” Ted said and passed the platter of chops my way.

  Jean set a bowl of mashed potatoes before us and lit once more. She cocked her head like a friendly robin. “It does sound like a hate crime from what the papers say.”

  “All murder is a hate crime.”

  “No. Not really. Sometimes people are just in the way.”

  “Whoops! You’re dry,” Ted said and refilled my wine glass.

  I drank up. Lowered my glass. “So what did the police ask you about me?”

  Jean flew up again and dimmed the overhead light. In the moody candlelight they looked unnervingly like a pair of the Bobbsey Twins.

  “Do you think he could have killed Robert?” they quoted together. Then they looked at each other and laughed merrily.

  I opened my mouth, but Jean cut in, “We know you didn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You just -- you’re not the type. You’re too civilized.”

  “Doesn’t that make me the prime suspect? By all the laws of mystery fiction? The least likely character?”

  “That’s fiction, Adrien,” Jean explained kindly.

  “Mostly English mysteries,” Ted put in. “In those Golden Age classics it’s always some smart-ass, over-refined chap. I guess half of them were probably supposed to be gay. Doesn’t matter,” he had to stop to chew and swallow. “Doesn’t matter. Bad heart.” He thumped his own chest for emphasis.

  Not bad; just misguided, I wanted to say. I was still smarting over those smart-ass, over-refined, probably gay villains. As I trimmed the fat from my chop I became aware that Jean was watching attentively. She smiled
, meeting my gaze. No doubt Avery Oxford would start exhibiting the “Continental” method of fork wielding. I couldn’t wait for them to kill him off, but they couldn’t ever seem to get beyond Chapter Three.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what else did the police want to know?”

  Jean and Ted exchanged a silent look.

  She said off-handedly, “Oh, you know, they were asking about Claude and you. If you were an item. And if you needed money. And who you ... well, you know, dated. We told them about the thing with Max.”

  For a minute I wondered if they thought I’d had a thing with Max. Exactly what were people telling the police?

  “They didn’t seem to find it very interesting,” Ted opined. “Very close minded.”

  “We told them you couldn’t have done it,” Jean reassured me once more. “Claude is a different matter. He’s homicidal if you argue cooking fats.”

  “I thought you didn’t think Claude killed Robert?”

  Jean looked up surprised. “Well, you never really know anyone, Adrien.”

  It was late when I left the Finches. I’d had several cups of coffee on top of half a bottle of wine; so I was driving more defensively than usual through Westwood. As ever the streets were crowded with college kids, the shop doors open and ablaze, theater lines wrapped around corners. On the radio Sarah McLachlan was singing “Building a Mystery,” which seemed, in my alcohol-tempered state, significant.

  I pulled up at a light, singing along under my breath. Two girls in fringed jackets walked arm in arm through the crosswalk. Sweet. Maybe the times were a-changin’. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, glanced at the jammed sidewalk outside a cinema.

  Did a double take.

  There in the queue for Scary Movie stood Detective Riordan, larger than life. Yes, it was definitely him. All six foot three of prime USDA beef in a leather bomber jacket. He had his arm around a red-haired girl and he was laughing down at her. Thanks to the music on the radio, it was like a scene out of a music video, with the shifting crowd cutting them off from view every couple of beats.