Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 11/01/10

by EQM

  I looked around the house, at the fireplace and the fine furniture. Some civilization. “All right. Go ahead.”

  She took a breath. “We know you’re researching a book about Mr. Spinnelli and his life. What I’m hoping is that we can reach some sort of settlement tonight where you agree to drop your book project, and we can all move on with no more meetings like this.”

  “Boy,” I said, making my eyes wide. “That sure does sound civilized. And what would happen if I were to say no, and walk out that door?”

  A slight shrug. “Nothing,” she said. “You’d be free to go, and I’d ensure that you have a more comfortable ride back to your cottage. But I feel compelled to warn you that while you’ll have a safe and pleasant evening tonight, I can’t guarantee the rest of your days and nights will be as safe and comfortable.”

  “Sounds like a threat to me.”

  She smiled. Her teeth were very white. “No, not at all ... but for one who’s been doing research on Mr. Spinnelli, I’m sure you know he has many loyal friends and supporters. And if some of these loyal friends and supporters get the impression you mean Mr. Spinnelli harm ... well, you’re a bright man. I’m sure you can figure out the rest.”

  I looked around this fine house once more, and through the open doors of the balcony I again heard the warbling cry of a loon. “Yeah, I can figure out the rest. The usual and customary one-way trip in the trunk of a car or in the hold of a boat. All right, so I’m here. Do you have something to offer me, or do you expect me to drop this book project out of the goodness of my heart?”

  Melanie’s pert little smile slipped away and was replaced by a tough businesswoman smile. “No, we’re never in the business of appealing to someone’s good nature, or someone’s goodness. Everyone needs to make a living ... even ... journalists, or writers. So here’s the offer. You drop the project, agree not to research or write anything about Mr. Spinnelli, and we’ll pay you twenty thousand dollars.”

  I shifted in my chair, my hands firm against the armrests. “For someone who supposedly places a high value on Mr. Spinnelli’s privacy, that’s a remarkably low offer.”

  She clasped her hands together over one knee. “The average cash advance for a nonfiction book last year was ten thousand dollars. What we’re offering you is twice that average amount. I think that’s quite a fair offer.”

  “Certainly,” I said. “But there’re other factors you’re not taking into account.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as making a splash, an impact, with one’s first book. The sales and notice of a success would make the next book’s advance that much larger. Not to mention the publicity, the prestige, and the other delights that come from writing a best-selling book. There’s more to life than just money.”

  “So it’s been alleged,” she said drily. “But I’ve always found that at the end of the day, it all comes down to cash. So, Mr. Rowland. What can we add to our twenty-thousand-dollar offer to make it more agreeable for you?”

  “I’m not sure I can put a figure on that.”

  She made a move to get up from the chair. “Then I’m afraid there’s nothing more to say.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Look ... can I get a drink or something? Being ... brought in like this has made me very thirsty. And then we can talk a bit more.”

  She stared right at me and I stared right back. Then she made her decision and got up. “Very well. How does ice water sound?”

  I was going to make a joke about whether she intended to get the water from the kitchen or just open up a vein in her arm, but I didn’t think Melanie Caprica was in a joking mood.

  “That sounds fine,” I said.

  She left me alone for a moment, and I got up and walked around. I checked out the French doors to the balcony, some of the artwork—nice framed canvases of landscapes and flowers from a woman artist named Varvara Harmon—and checked out the bookshelves as well. The books were leather-bound and looked like they came from a decorating catalogue that said something like, “For Sale, one leather-bound library, books guaranteed unread, perfect to impress those visitors who move their lips while reading.”

  I heard the clatter of footsteps and, scratching my head one more time, returned to my chair. Melanie came back in, holding a wooden tray with one glass of ice water. I picked up the water, nodded my thanks, and drank half of it in one chilly swallow. I put the glass back down on the tray, now sitting before me on a coffee table.

  My host—hostess?—seemed irritated. “Do go on, Mr. Rowland. What did you have to say?”

  I shrugged. “I have a counteroffer.”

  She said, “Name the price, then. Why are you wasting my time?”

  “Because the counteroffer doesn’t involve money.”

  “What does it involve, then?”

  I gave her my best smile, which was a feat, considering where I was and how I had gotten there. “The counteroffer involves you.”

  That got her, and I felt a bit of a thrill that she seemed slightly off balance. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What do you mean, it involves me?”

  “It involves you, Miss Melanie Caprica, who has been in the employ of Mr. Frank Spinnelli for the past seven years. Prior to that, you went to Suffolk Law School, and before that, you were a summa cum laude graduate of Brown University. And curiously enough, your record prior to entering Brown University was a bit ... sketchy. Involving some criminal complaints. Regarding petty larceny, drug possession, unlicensed massage therapy ...”

  With each sentence I had said, her face had gotten redder and redder, until now, it was scarlet. I again tried my best smile and said, “See? You’re not the only one with impressive research capabilities.”

  “That’s it,” she snapped. “That’s enough.”

  “But don’t you want to hear more about my counteroffer? I mean, well, excuse me for saying this, but you’re taking this very personally, Miss Caprica, and this is strictly business, is it not? For both parties to come away with the feeling that each has reached a compromise, a deal?”

  I suppose I have the good professors at Suffolk Law to thank for what happened next, for she composed herself and said, “All right. Go on. But make it quick.”

  I reached over, finished my glass of water, glad to see my hand wasn’t shaking when I put the empty glass down. “Then here’s my offer, and no more time-wasting. I still want to do this book. Mr. Spinnelli has had an ... interesting life. The story of men like Mr. Spinnelli often takes place in New Jersey, New York, or Los Angeles. Not quiet little New England. Right there is the hook, Miss Caprica. Something different, something unusual, something that will catch the interest of book publishers.”

  “And my part in this?”

  I shrugged again. “Work with me. Be a co-author, or an unnamed contributor. You know so many secrets, so many tales.... With your assistance, I guarantee the book will be a bestseller and optioned to the movies. An inside view of Mr. Spinnelli and his organization? Instant hit.”

  I watched her face carefully, and then she burst out laughing. “You have no idea what you’re asking.”

  “I surely do,” I said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have asked it.”

  Another shake of her head and another burst of laughter. “You ... you ... bone-picker. You scribbler. You skimmer of other people’s trash, misery, dirt. You know nothing of loyalty, nothing of serving someone who has helped you out, nothing about me or my way of life.”

  I toyed with the empty glass and touched the top of the coffee table. “Then explain it to me.”

  She shifted in her seat and said, “My earlier history ... true. Nothing I was proud of. But I grew up in a tough neighborhood, with a single mom who did the best she could but which wasn’t enough. So the streets called to me.... I answered their call ... but before it was too late, Frank Spinnelli took notice of me and straightened me out. I got my GED, got into Brown ... and after getting my law degree, I began to repay the many services he provided to me. I’ve had one clien
t during my entire professional career. My savior.”

  “Sounds like a king. Or an emperor. Not a criminal thug.”

  Her eyes flashed at me. “Again ... your ignorance is overwhelming, Mr. Rowland. Mr. Spinnelli represents ... represents something that has existed in human society for centuries. A man above society, who lives and exists outside of the normal, who protects his family and friends, and doesn’t depend on society to protect him or them. A man of strength, of vision, of power, a man who—”

  I interrupted her. “I once did a story, back in my Providence Journal days, about a little grocery-shop owner, lived in a mixed neighborhood. Once he had it started up and running, two associates of Mr. Spinnelli’s came by to advise him of the nature of that particular neighborhood. That donations had to be made on a weekly basis to a nonexistent local civic-action group. He refused to pay. And then he had to quickly learn how to run a grocery store with two broken arms. So don’t give me any more crap about the noble feudal chief who protects the poor and the struggling. It’s nonsense, and deep inside, you know it.”

  “Then I guess our negotiations are over,” she said, standing up. “I’ll have Alonzo and Pat drive you back to your cottage. And after tomorrow ... I’d be one prepared man, Mr. Rowland.”

  I stood up as well. “Sounds nice, Miss Caprica. For I’m sure you’re one prepared woman.”

  Again, that quick puzzled look that pleased me. “You’re speaking in riddles again, Mr. Rowland.”

  I held out my hands in a quick gesture. “Then I’ll make this plain and simple.”

  “Please do.”

  I took a breath. “How much longer do you think you and your two friends can keep the secret hidden?”

  “And what secret is that?”

  Another breath. “That Mr. Spinnelli is dead.”

  My, that certainly got her attention, and her eyes stared at me with such hate and contempt, I had to wonder how she’d ever gotten any customers doing unlicensed masseuse work back in the day. “You ... you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I went back to my chair. “I most certainly do. Shall I go on?”

  She stood there as if debating whether to stand up and have her two boys toss me out, or let curiosity take control and sit down.

  Curiosity, I was pleased to see, won out. She sat down. “Go on. Now, please.”

  I said, “Even though I’m no longer with the Journal, I have contacts with a number of law-enforcement types in Providence and elsewhere. And in doing research for my book, I kept on getting the same story, over and over again. That Mr. Spinnelli had dropped out of sight. That he was no longer being seen at his usual haunts, the bars, the social clubs, the restaurants. And that there were grumblings among other ... types who move in Mr. Spinnelli’s circle that they were concerned that they hadn’t seen him or heard from him in a while.”

  She said quickly, “He’s an old man. He’s not well. Which is why he’s up here.”

  I scratched at the back of my head again. “So you say. But I’ve been here for a while, Miss Caprica, doing my research. And any of my former editors would tell you, I’m a bear when it comes to being prepared and doing research. And I’ve contacted every home-health organization within a two-hour drive of this place. Not one of them has a patient on Lake Walker. I’ve kept an eye on this place as well, and I’ve only seen you and your two ... men. One of the men, every Thursday, goes out and does the week’s shopping. I’ve seen what he buys, as I’ve stood behind him a couple of times in the checkout line. Enough food for three ... and maybe four if you would stretch it, but why would you have to stretch it?”

  Her hands were clasped so tight I thought the fancy fingernails would crack. “Anything else?”

  “Sure,” I said. “There were two things I caught, when I was brought up here. There are just the three of you. Where are Mr. Spinnelli’s other associates? His relatives? Nieces, nephews, brothers, and sisters? For a sickly man ... I’m sure there’d be more here than just the three of you.”

  Her hands were still tightly clasped. “You said two things. What was the other?”

  I tried to keep my voice low, even, and cool. “I’ve done stories before where I was in the presence of the big boss, whether it was a power company exec or a National Guard general. Every time I did a story like that, there was a sense of urgency in the air ... a buzz, if you like, that the head honcho was either in the room or nearby. I didn’t get that feeling from Alonzo or Pat when they brought me here, or from you either. Nothing like that at all. Mr. Spinnelli is not in Providence, he’s not here, and I doubt he’d be in the witness-protection program. Therefore ... he’s dead, isn’t he?”

  She suddenly stood up. “We’re through here. Done. No more talking.”

  Melanie started to turn and I said, “Think twice before you let your anger get ahold of you, Miss Caprica. Before you call in Alonzo and Pat and have them take me for that quote, ride, unquote.”

  She looked at me, hands clenched, nostrils flaring. “And what should I think about, you little piece of crap?”

  I said, “Think about this. Just so you know, I’ve secured the services of an attorney. Not one with quite the pedigree of you, but good enough. And he’s a former police chief from a town here in New Hampshire, with lots of interesting law-enforcement contacts. And he loves to talk with me ... so much that I talk to him once a day, seven days a week. And he has strict instructions, since I’ve been working on this book.... A day goes by without my phone call and the police show up here on your doorstep.”

  It seemed she was trying very hard to control her voice. “When we have to ... we’re quite skilled. There’s no evidence you’ve been here. None.”

  “Oh yes, there is,” I said. “Lots of evidence. In the time I’ve been here, Miss Caprica, I’ve made sure to deposit my fingerprints on as many surfaces as possible, here and in the SUV, and I’ve also left some bits of hair, to assist in a DNA analysis down the road, if need be. Maybe you could give the house and the SUV a good cleaning, and then, maybe not. It would just take one fingerprint. So what do you think would happen if I were to disappear and evidence arose that this was the last place I visited? Do you think the cops and the local news media would let that story die? Of course not ... and you can be sure that in the process of trying to find me, the news would come out that your boss is dead. So what’s it going to be? Let your emotions take control, or be a cool businesswoman?”

  I kept a close eye on her, feeling the hammering in my chest return, knowing how close this was all going to be, wondering if I was going to pull it off, wondering what she would do . . .

  And in another surprise, she sat back down heavily in her chair, buried her face in her hands, and said, “Oh, damn you, why the hell did you feel the need to be a goddamn snoop?”

  I wasn’t sure what was going on, but it seemed encouraging. “My nature. And my job, I guess. I’m sure it’s been pretty hard, trying to keep it all together.”

  Melanie raised up her head. “You have no idea. No idea at all. We three . . . we’ve been on a knife edge. The phone calls, the attempted visits, everything else . . . you have no idea.”

  “And how can you keep putting off the phone calls?”

  She sighed. “Alonzo . . . he can do a fair imitation of Mr. Spinnelli on the telephone, when I need him.”

  “Why? I mean, what’s the point?”

  “The point . . .” She clasped her hands together, shook her head a couple of times. “The point is . . . Mr. Spinnelli has enemies waiting for him to falter, fail, or leave. And with those three options, comes one more. Alonzo, Pat, and I would leave the scene, because of our connection to Mr. Spinnelli. And that would be a permanent departure. And when . . . when . . . Mr. Spinnelli passed a number of weeks ago, up here in his bedroom, we realized we had to put on a façade, an impression that he’s still running the business. Even though . . . well, we found a nice spot on the other side of this hill. With a view of the lake. He was a Providence boy,
through and through, but he loved this place.”

  “But you must have known it couldn’t last.”

  She wiped at her eyes. “Day to day. That’s all we were doing. Day to day . . . until you showed up. You piece of crap, you.”

  I thought for a moment, leaned forward in my own chair. “My original offer still stands.”

  Another wipe to her eyes. “A book? Are you crazy?”

  From outside, another cry from a loon. “Hear that?”

  “What? The loon?”

  “Yeah, the loon. You know, one other thing I’ve learned up here is that the loon species is hundreds of thousands of years old . . . and they still live the same. They live on lakes from spring to fall . . . and then they know it’s time to move on, and they migrate, to live on the ocean during the winter months.”

  Another loon cry.

  “Miss Caprica, it’s time to move on. You and Alonzo and Pat . . . work with me on this book, and arrangements can be made. . . . Like I said, I have connections with law enforcement. We both can get what we want: I get a great best-selling book, a start on a new career, and you and your friends, you get a new life, and safety. This is a good deal for the three of you, before a heavily armed crew from Providence comes up here and won’t take no for an answer. But like the loons out there . . . it’s time.”

  She stared at me, and I stared back at her. She wiped at her eyes again and looked over my shoulder, out to the lake, where the loons lived . . . but only for a while.

  I cleared my throat. “Miss Caprica?’

  She looked at me. Finally smiled. “Call me Melanie.”

  Copyright © 2010 Brendan DuBois

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  Fiction

  INEVITABLE

  By Jennifer Itell

  Jennifer Itell earned an MFA from Emerson College in Boston before moving to Denver, where she teaches creative writing at the University of Denver and the Lighthouse Writers Workshop. Her short stories have appeared in a variety of publications, including Redbook, Story Quarterly, Cimarron Review, and Women’s Studies Quarterly. She is currently at work on a novel, for which she received a 2006 Rocky Mountain Women’s Institute fellowship. This is her EQMM debut, and a promising one it is!