by John Gaspard
Clifford moved energetically toward a bookcase that lined one wall. “Can I get you something to drink while we talk?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at me.
“I’m good,” I said, not entirely sure why we were walking at full speed toward a bookcase. Before I could form the question, the answer appeared. The bookcase slid open, parting like the doors on the Starship Enterprise. I may have been mistaken, but the process might have even included the swish sound effect from the TV series.
Clifford turned and beamed as we entered the room. “I have to spend my money on something.” He laughed by way of explanation. “And who doesn’t want a secret room behind a set of bookcases?”
“I can’t speak for the population at large,” I said as we entered the big, airy room. “But it’s something I’ve wanted since I was, like, five. Please tell me you don’t also have a bat pole to the Bat Cave.”
“If I did, would I admit it?”
“Probably not.”
The room appeared to be a mix of library, office and sitting room. One wall consisted of large, leaded-glass windows, the corners featuring a bit of stained glass. Two other walls were lined with actual bookcases, while a large writer’s desk took up the center of the room. Atop the desk was a vintage IBM Selectric typewriter, and next to it a stack of typing paper, along with various correspondence.
Clifford must have recognized the five hardcovers were weighing me down, for he gestured to the desk while he scooped up the typewritten pages and straightened them into a neat pile. “Returned and remaindered?” he asked, gesturing to the stack of books I’d lugged in.
I shook my head. “My uncle, he’s a fan. He was hoping for an autograph. Or five.”
“Not a problem.” He smiled as he made a final adjustment to the neat stack of paper. He looked up and caught me watching him.
“The latest novel?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. I’m in the midst of rereading and editing. Not sure if it’s ready to go or not. Let me tell you, Eli, novel writing can be a real bear. Plus being on deadline is a headache all its own. I’m being pressured to turn it in, but happily I’ve reached a point where I can say they’ll get it when they get it and have the clout to back that up.”
“That must drive your publisher a little crazy.”
He shrugged. “They’ve learned to live with it. They know they’ll get the book—and the all-important title—when I’m ready to hand it over.”
I glanced down at the classic Selectric, which was in pristine shape, not beginning to show any of the wear and tear you’d expect to find. “You know, I had read somewhere that you still write on a typewriter, but I always thought it was just PR.”
“It’s both true and PR,” he said, gesturing to an antique couch as he took a seat in a matching high back chair. “Like it or not, it’s all PR.” There was a moment of silence while we both settled in.
“All right, Eli, I understand we’re here to talk about murder.”
His bluntness took me by surprise. “Yes, I suppose we are.”
He straightened the seam of his pressed trousers and I saw for the first time that while his shirt and pants could easily have been hand-tailored, for footwear he preferred the nostalgic look and feel of plain old, bright red Jack Purcell sneakers. These contrasted nicely with the Rolex on his wrist.
“Our friends in Homicide filled me in on the details of the murder of Tyler James and gave me the impression I was under consideration as a possible suspect. I understand all that. What I don’t understand is how you fit into this. They said you found the body, but that doesn’t naturally lead to conducting interviews, does it?”
I shook my head. “I think there is no precedent for this. All I know is I’m supposed to talk to the suspects after the police have finished with them.”
“Oh, sad to say, I don’t think the police have finished with me. You see, I knew Tyler James well, and had made a handful of purchases through him. I told the police as much.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not. We’d had some heated negotiations in the past, Tyler and I. I’m sure at least one of those arguments was witnessed by others. Plus, of course, I have no alibi for the night of the murder. I’ve convicted people in my books with far less compelling evidence.”
“How do you feel about that?”
He smiled at me wryly. “Is this a therapy session?”
“I’m not sure what this is.”
“Honestly, I feel intrigued,” he said, settling back into the chair. “I have written more than my fair share of locked room stories, but this is the first time I’ve found myself as a character thrust into the midst of the mystery.”
“Any thoughts on a solution?”
“You mean as a mystery writer as opposed to a murder suspect?”
“Whichever works.”
“They say the difference between fact and fiction is fiction has to make sense. Sadly, real life doesn’t always work out that cleanly.”
He smiled and continued. “Eli, I love locked room mysteries. That’s why I write them with,” he gestured around the room, “no small amount of success. I think their appeal lies in the fact that each of us, in our experience, is a victim of our own locked room mystery. We’re locked into this thing called life, we’re doomed, and we end up dead. With no real understanding of who killed us and why.”
“That’s very philosophical.”
“The best mysteries are ultimately primal. I suspect your uncle would agree with me,” he said. “As for this case in particular, one or two elements don’t quite make sense to me.”
“Such as?”
“For one, if in fact Tyler was in the midst of a transaction involving London After Midnight—a mouthwatering possibility, if it’s true—why did it go south? All the elements of the sale were in place. What went wrong?”
I considered this. “Clearly something.”
“Clearly. The other odd element is simply the amount of money. While $75,000 is still, even in this day, a lot of money, I believe it’s far below the market value—or perhaps I should say black market value—of that movie.”
“A down payment?” I ventured.
“In fiction, these are questions which would demand to be answered. In real life, we may not be so lucky.” He glanced at his watch. “Eli, it’s coming up on lunch time.”
I was on my feet before he could continue. “I understand. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”
He waved a hand at me. “On the contrary, I was going to ask if you’d like to continue this conversation over lunch. I was just going to walk to the club, assuming another blizzard hasn’t descended on us while we spoke,” he added, turning to inspect the weather conditions through the large windows.
“It would not surprise me,” I said, not sure if I should stay standing or return to my position on the couch. “This is the only winter in memory in which I was actually concerned about coming down with snow blindness.”
Clifford suddenly turned from the windows and tilted his head to one side, his eyes narrowing. “Snow blindness,” he said slowly. “Snow blind. I like that. I like that very much.” He jumped up and moved quickly to his work desk.
He yanked on a black knob on the front of the desk and a small, wooden board slid into view. From where I stood, I could see a sheet of paper had been taped to the surface and the sheet was covered with handwritten scribblings. Clifford grabbed a pen and added a notation to the sheet.
“Snow Blind,” he said with satisfaction. “Oh, that’s a good one. Thank you, Eli.”
He slid the board closed and then looked over, recognizing the look of confusion on my face.
“Oh, I keep a running list of possible book titles,” he said, gesturing toward the desk. “I’ve learned that whenever I think of one, I have to write it down or e
lse it will disappear into the ether, never to return. Such is the life of a writer,” he added with a smile. “Now let’s go get some lunch and talk a bit more about murder.”
I admit to having a preconceived notion—okay, let’s call it a prejudice—about the Summit Club. It’s a legendary institution in the Twin Cities, with an exclusive membership and a storied history. My impression of the place had always been that when really rich people wanted to make moderately rich people feel inferior, they would invite them to the Summit Club.
Situated on Summit Avenue and overlooking downtown St. Paul, the club completely lived up to its reputation. I felt instantly out of place the moment we walked through the massive front door. To be honest, my deep feelings of inferiority kicked in as soon as we approached the massive building, which was half mansion, half quasi-castle and one hundred percent imposing.
Clifford Thomas had not been kidding when he suggested we walk to lunch. The club was less than a block from his own mansion, and upon arrival I got the immediate impression he was a frequent, perhaps daily, visitor.
We were quickly settled into what I assumed was his regular table, right next to a large set of windows presenting a stunning view of downtown St. Paul below and the river and rolling hills beyond. Within seconds I was handed a daily menu on what felt like real parchment, while the waiter set a tumbler of something with ice in front of Clifford. The waiter, an older rail-thin man with a feathering of white hair across his otherwise bald head, stood by silently while I quickly scanned the options on the menu, finally landing on something I recognized.
“A BLT,” I said, handing back the menu and trying to get comfortable in the chair, which had apparently been designed without comfort in mind.
“And to drink?”
I glanced over at Clifford who was sipping his unknown concoction and I immediately decided not to blindly emulate him, as that might lead to actual blindness or at the very least passing out in the foyer.
“Hot tea would be great, thanks.”
The waiter nodded and moved away as quickly and quietly as he had arrived.
“Aren’t you eating?” I asked.
“He knows what I want. I’m a creature of habit in most things, but especially lunch.”
“This place is impressive,” I said, scanning the room, which held maybe twenty small tables and currently about ten other diners.
“I believe that is its sole ambition,” Clifford said. He smiled and looked around the room, where the quiet buzz of conversation seemed to magically stay at exactly the same volume. “My ex-wife hated this place. She called it The Elitist Club.”
I had forgotten he even had an ex-wife, and might not have known about her if not for my late aunt Alice’s reading habits. “Oh, yes. My aunt Alice used to read her books.”
“Why did she stop?”
“She died,” I said.
He gave me a sympathetic nod. “As good a reason as any to stop reading someone’s books,” he said. “But not the reason I stopped reading hers.”
“She writes mysteries too, right?” I ventured.
“That she does. The Mother Goose Murder Series,” he said flatly. “She has done quite well for herself. Lives in Manhattan, on the park. Last I heard she was dating a police detective.”
“That’s funny,” I said.
“Haven’t seen the humor in it yet,” he said, smoothly handing off his empty glass as the silent waiter placed a new one on the table in front of him.
“No,” I said, trying to pull myself out of this unforeseen hole. “I mean, I have an ex-wife and she’s also involved with a police detective. Married to him, actually.”
“Ah,” he said taking a sip of the fresh drink. “Is that why she’s your ex? A crowded bed?”
I nodded. “Yes,” I said, not sure I enjoyed his turn of phrase.
“My marriage fell victim to something just as primal,” he said, his gaze falling on the skyline over my shoulder. I waited, not sure if I was meant to delve further. He continued without me. “Jealousy. Simple jealousy. I can admit it now. I thought I should be the famous writer in the family, but fate clearly had other plans.”
I nodded, but at this point I wasn’t sure he was even really still talking to me.
“When she wrote the first book, The Mother Goose Murders, I thought it was a lark. You know, a passing phase. That is, until her book rocketed past my latest on The New York Times’ bestseller list. Then came Murder at St. Ives, and Simple Simon: A Taste for Murder.” He didn’t exactly spit out the titles, but his tone made it clear he had little love for them. His eyes shifted back to me. “And suddenly she’s the one on the book tour, she’s the one making movie deals, she’s the one everyone wants to see and touch and purr over.” He took another long sip.
“But,” I said quietly, not sure I was really part of this conversation, “your books are bestsellers. You have movie offers. You’re…” I couldn’t think of the right words. “A big deal,” I finally said.
He clucked his tongue. “Of course, I knew that on a conscious level, but that’s not where jealousy does its best work. No, Eli, it’s a persistent little devil, eating away at a relationship, destroying the underpinnings before you even realize the level of damage it’s doing.” He looked up to see the waiter had returned, with a sandwich for me and a bowl of soup and another drink for Clifford.
“Heed my advice,” he said in conclusion, as he stirred the soup absently. “Guard against jealousy at every turn. If not,” he said with a laugh as he gestured around the grand, impressive room full of millionaires, “someday you may end up like me.”
“I had the strangest dream last night.”
Clifford was still talking, but we were no longer seated within the warm confines of the Summit Club. After a long, long lunch that mostly consisted of drinks for Clifford, he had wisely decided he needed a nap and we were in the midst of making the short trek back to his house. His gait was unsteady and I kept one hand near his elbow as we navigated the light snow which had fallen during our afternoon sojourn.
“I dreamt I had killed someone,” he said as we crossed Summit Avenue. My ears, buried as they were under my stocking cap, perked up, and I did my best not to make any sound of surprise as we made a left, heading down the block toward his mansion.
“I mean,” he continued, “in the dream, I had this vague memory of killing someone, but I had somehow blocked it out. But when I woke up, the feeling of the dream stayed with me. Has that ever happened to you?” He turned toward me and I shrugged.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
He stopped in the center of the sidewalk. “I think it’s a fascinating feeling—to suddenly have the sense you’ve committed this horrible crime, but it’s only a vague feeling and you have no actual memory or proof of the incident. It exists—if it exists at all—in the never-never land of dreams.” He looked around to get his bearings, spotted his house and continued toward it, with me one step behind on the narrowly shoveled walk.
“Like a repressed memory?” I offered.
“Yes,” he said, turning to look over his shoulder as we walked. His eyes were narrow slits and he appeared to be having trouble focusing them. “I think that might be the premise for the next book,” he added as he turned back and continued toward his house. I followed and nearly collided with him when he suddenly stopped and pivoted around.
“And I’ll use the title you gave me,” he said loudly, clearly excited by the sudden flow of ideas. “Snow Blindness. That’s perfect. I have to go write this down. Eli, never forget to write the good ideas down. There are some who say good ideas never really go away, but in my limited experience that’s hardly ever the case.”
With renewed energy he spun around and increased his pace, making it difficult for me to catch up to him. I doubled my speed and caught up as he climbed the steps to the massive front door. I stood
at the bottom of the steps and looked up as he inserted his key in the lock. He turned to me as he pushed the door open.
“Thank you, Eli,” he said, smiling down at me. “Thank you for a most productive afternoon.”
“Sure,” I said. “About the books I brought for my uncle—”
Too late. The door shut with a thudding finality and then all was quiet.
I looked up at the dark house, as one light popped on in what I guessed was the library we had sat in earlier. The only other light came from the Santa on the widow’s walk. From this low angle, there was nothing jolly about this old St. Nick. The gray light of dusk and the dim bulb inside the plastic figure gave his features a decidedly menacing appearance.
The snow continued to fall lightly as I quickly headed back down the walk, past the decapitated snowmen, realizing for the first time just how cold and dark the day had turned.
Chapter 8
“You may need to reassess your definition of ‘crowded,’ in terms of its relationship to this store.”
It was a convoluted thought, but I knew exactly what Nathan meant. A perpetually low-energy children’s magician, Nathan had a slow, thoughtful way of speaking which could be lulling in its monotone cadences. His perceptions may have been slow in coming but were nearly always dead on, and his thoughts on what now constituted a crowd were no exception.
In the past, when we referred to Chicago Magic as being “crowded,” we were likely referring to a sudden rush of customers amounting to at most five people. Five was a crowd, six would be thought of as crushing, and with the exception of a handful of magic club meetings when I was a kid, I couldn’t remember when we’d had more than a dozen people in the store at the same time.