Regarding Ducks and Universes

by Neve Maslakovic

  “You should try to EAT MORE.”

  There was a shrill whistle, making me jump.

  “Just in TIME. Child, can you bring in the hot water from the stove?”

  Bean got up and went into the kitchen. She came back with a silver kettle and proceeded to pour steaming water into the three cups waiting on the wicker table.

  “None for me, thanks,” I said. “I’ve had too much tea this week.”

  “Nonsense, Felix, dear. It’s chamomile. Aids the digestion.”

  Bean met my eye and passed me a teacup. Delicate white-and-yellow flowers floated in the steaming water.

  “So you figured it out, DID YOU?” Aunt Hen shrieked suddenly. “I told Patrick and Klara it wasn’t a good idea to change Felix’s birth date, but they DIDN’T LISTEN. Patrick and Klara,” she shook her head, “always had VERY progressive ideas. ARTISTS.”

  “You sent me—that is, Aunt Hen left me a photograph. That’s how I found out.”

  “Left you a photo in her will, did she?”

  “If you happen to have any old photographs—” Bean said.

  Aunt Henrietta wrinkled her nose, deepening its natural furrows. “IF I had any photographs—I’m not saying I do—well, I never said a word to my Felix about his TRUE age, not until he came to me and told me that he’d met YOU, Felix, dear. He’s embroiled in some scheme to prove he’s the universe MAKER, my Felix is. The idea sounds like it has some SCIENTIFIC merit, I’d say. What did she DIE OF?”

  I hesitated. Aunt Hen, to the best of my knowledge, had died of extreme old age, but I felt it would be tactless to say so.

  “Er—she tripped in front of a people mover.”

  “Speak up, dear.”

  “People mover,” I repeated more loudly, immediately regretting the lie.

  “Good way to go. That’s how I’d like to die—out and about, not lying in BED.”

  “So Felix’s parents never gave you any baby photos of him?” Bean tried again. “A photo taken on Y-day?”

  “Y-day, you say? Well, there was a POSTCARD.”

  “Why didn’t you say so, Aunt Hen?” I said. “A postcard—”

  “You didn’t ASK about a postcard,” she pointed out. “Here, hand me that box.”

  I moved the round leather box, which was heavier than it looked, from the wicker table to the middle of the sofa between us. Aunt Hen took the lid off and proceeded to finger through the jumble of old photographs, letters, and documents. After only a couple of minutes she pronounced, “There.” A youthful smile crossed her face. “I was still onboard in the Mediterranean then, my last project before I retired to teaching. Letters often took more than TWO months to REACH us.”

  In the postcard, the Golden Gate Bridge looked much the same as it had yesterday when I’d traversed its sidewalks, except that the cars driving across were antique-looking, in silver, beige, and other subdued colors. The space on the back was filled in my mother’s handwriting (or rather, Felix’s mother’s handwriting, since the stamp on the Universe B postcard trailed Y-day by a week.) I read the card, then passed it to Bean, who read it aloud, pausing here and there to decipher a word:

  Dear Henrietta,

  Hope your expedition is going well. We had a lovely day today, drove up to San Francisco for an afternoon pickup of a new acquisition, and had time for a walk on the Golden Gate Bridge first. Little Felix almost lost his duck pacifier—you know how fond he is of that thing—it bounced off the bridge railing but luckily landed on the sidewalk. I don’t know what we would have done if it had gone overboard!

  My love to you and Otto,

  Klara

  “Wait a minute,” I said as the meaning of my mother’s words sank in. “You knew my parents before the universes diverged?”

  “Yes, of course. I knew your father when he was a child.”

  “That’s impossible. Aunt Hen and Uncle Otto met and got married during my first year at San Diego. I’m sure of that. I had to go to the wedding and wear a tuxedo.”

  “Then why did she have a baby photo of you, the Aunt Henrietta of your Universe A, Felix?” said Bean.

  “I have no idea.”

  Henrietta B gave a ladylike chortle. “She always was a bit WILD, Henrietta was. Otto and I got married at eighteen, dear Felix. We were working together in the Mediterranean when this postcard came.” She tapped the postcard with a long, arched, yellowish nail. “Not long after that we found out we now had two universes and there were COPIES of everybody! Quite a scientific discovery. You won’t get many people to say this, but I LIKE that we have two universes. The more, the MERRIER, I say. But things did get out of hand for a while. Klara and Patrick wanted to shield you from all that.”

  I took a sip of the tea, felt something grainy in my mouth, and returned one of the chamomile flowers back into the teacup.

  “It was decided that the two branches of the family would not keep in touch. PITY. I’ve always felt you and Felix were my great-nephews equally. As for Henrietta A,” Aunt Hen sniffed, “she and her Otto got a DIVORCE a couple of years after Y-day—some silly spat over money. MY Otto and I never let MONEY stand in our way. But they remarried later, you say?” She shook her head and dug something else out of the leather box. “There is no harm in letting you see the photograph now, I suppose. It came with the postcard. Klara and Patrick later asked me never to show it to anyone and I haven’t, not until today.”

  It was a faded and yellowing version of the photo Bean and I knew as 13B.

  “So my parents did drive to the city for a new gallery piece,” I said, picking up the postcard again. “I assumed that there would be more to it than that. I wonder what the acquisition was. It doesn’t matter in the least, but it just seems right to know, somehow.”

  “I can tell you the answer to that, Felix, dear. It was an oil painting—a Venus, a NUDE,” said Aunt Henrietta.

  I remembered it. Not from the gallery. The shapely alabaster figure had hung on my parents’ living room wall and captivated the interest of a teenage boy. Later, as I was gathering my mother’s watercolors and other keepsakes from the Carmel house, I’d packed the Venus into the protective boxes with the watercolors. I’d been meaning to unpack the paintings and put them on my walls for a long time.

  Aunt Henrietta took a sip of her tea. “I am looking forward to the mystery DINNER, I have to say.”

  “I beg your pardon, Aunt Hen?” I thought she had gotten confused about who we were and why we were there.

  “My Felix is hosting a mystery dinner party tonight at his Organic Oven. Last month the theme was Imperial Russia and I played the part of a duchess. This time we’re a party of snowbound Alaska explorers. Sometime during the evening someone will get KILLED—I hope it’s not me, it’s deathly BORING being the victim—and the rest of us will get clues and try to figure out who did it and why. Dear Felix will be stopping by later to bring my instruction packet.”

  “Mystery dinner party? Huh.” I got up. “We should be going, Bean. I don’t want to overstay my tourist entry permit. Besides, er—I have work to do.”

  Without moving from sofa, Aunt Henrietta asked, “What are you planning on doing with your LIFE, young man?”

  “I work for a kitchen company.”

  She didn’t seem to hear me.

  “I’m writing a book,” I pronounced more loudly.

  “Are you, now?” said Aunt Henrietta. “About WHAT?”

  “It’s a mystery.”

  “You don’t SAY. It must run in the family, the taste for mysteries. Not as useful as a COOKBOOK, perhaps, but often a satisfying read. Here, HELP me up.”

  Bean and I took an arm each and gently helped Aunt Henrietta to her feet. Leaning on a cane, she made her way across the room to a door I hadn’t noticed before.

  “In here.” She pushed the door open with her cane. The cramped space, probably meant as a large closet, held floor-to-ceiling glass-fronted bookcases.

  “Most of it is academic materials. Marine biology textbooks and p
eriodicals. Of no interest to you, of course. But down there—yes, that might be just the thing.” She shuffled over to the far bookcase, opened the glass door, and tapped the row of books on the bottom with her cane. “THAT one, dear Felix. At the end.”

  I knelt down and retrieved the book she had indicated.

  “It’s the 1934 printing of The Nine Tailors. The first edition,” Aunt Hen said. “My favorite of the Dorothy Sayers books. The dust jacket is ORIGINAL. The nine tailors are BELLS, not suit-makers, and Dorothy herself is NO relation, of course. The book is out of print, though YOU have access to it, no doubt, on that endless shelf that hangs around your neck. Still, I’d like you to have it, Felix, dear. I don’t know how anyone can read on those little screens.”

  “The font size is adjustable. Or you can have it read to you,” I said. “First edition? Dust jacket?”

  “The very first—the original—printing of a book. Dust jacket—well, self-explanatory,” Bean said from the doorway.

  “It can read a book to you? In that case I might have to give it a try,” Aunt Hen said. “After all, when Socrates faced the brand-new technology of the written word, he DID NOT LIKE IT at all. It takes time to get used to things. Though if you are going to use a machine for reading it should at least be shaped like a book. Why does it open up to a CIRCLE?”

  “I suppose Olivia May Novak Irving would know,” I said. The Dorothy Sayers had clearly passed through many hands. The dust jacket was a faded brown, whether by the hand of time or because of poor printing quality, I couldn’t tell, nothing like the glossy colors I had seen on the covers of the volumes in the Bookworm. The edges were worn and there was a grease stain on the spine. The paper looked a tad moldy.

  “And what about ROMANCES?” Aunt Henrietta said. “Don’t look so surprised. Did I say I ONLY liked academic periodicals and mysteries? A romance is a good POOL-side read. Are omnis WATERPROOF?”

  “Not usually,” Bean said.

  “Thanks for the paper book, Aunt Hen,” I said. “Do you collect dolphin porcelain figurines? I have half of—that is, do you want—”

  “THOSE things,” she guffawed. “A waste of time AND money. I collect SEA HORSES, much more sensible. Good resale value.”

  As we stood on the apartment doorstep on our way out, Aunt Henrietta nudged my leg with her cane and asked, “Is HER Otto still alive?”

  “I—yes, he is. Last I heard he was doing a world tour of marine sanctuaries in—well, in Aunt Hen’s honor.”

  “My Otto has been in greener pastures these twenty years. I wonder…”

  Quite inexplicably, Bean bent down and gave Aunt Henrietta a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. Women do strange things sometimes.

  “Thank you for everything, Aunt Henrietta,” she said.

  Aunt Henrietta waved us off. I could hear her yelling, “SEND ME YOUR BOOK,” as Bean and I went out the front door of the villa and proceeded down the garden path.

  A cactus flowering by the side of the path caught my attention.

  “Hey, that looks like Pak’s mother’s cactus, only bigger. He said it was called a lace hedgehog, didn’t he? I wonder how sharp those spikes are.” I knelt down to examine the multi-limbed plant. Without warning, I saw a flash of something rush at me and connect. Slowly I straightened up and looked down at the Dorothy Sayers I was hugging to my chest, away from cactus spikes and dirt. There was a small and round hole in it. It hadn’t been there a second ago.

  “What is that?” Bean said. “It almost looks like a—”

  She didn’t finish her sentence.

  In the sculpted shrubbery behind the cactus the increasingly loud sounds of a scuffle could be heard. Then someone said, “I’ve got her.”

  [34]

  I HAVE AN ARCH-NEMESIS

  Mrs. Noor, accompanied by a younger, male version of herself, stepped out from behind a camel-shaped shrub and onto the path. “She’s over there,” the detective said, gesturing behind her and panting. She was clutching a hardcover book much bigger than the smoldering The Nine Tailors in my hands.

  “Bean,” I said, “this is Miss Mar—Mrs. Noor from the investigative agency Noor & Brood.”

  “And my son Ham,” Mrs. Noor said.

  “And her son Ham.”

  “And—well, this is Felix B,” I said. He was standing behind Mrs. Noor and Ham.

  Bean said hello.

  We followed Mrs. Noor, Ham, and Felix B back through the gap between the camel shrub and a peacock-shaped one and into the heart of the garden. Pink and white roses in bloom encircled two wooden benches. One bench was empty and on the other sat Gabriella Short. Her chic summer dress clashed horribly with the laserinne lying on the ground just out of her reach. I noticed that she was holding her hands rather stiffly behind her back.

  “I will not say one word without my lawyer,” Gabriella informed us and looked away.

  Mrs. Noor sat down heavily on the bench opposite Gabriella. “Gabriella,” she said, struggling to catch her breath, “has been scheming to dispose of you, Felix.”

  “Are you reading something, Mrs. Noor?” I pointed to the book in her hands.

  “This? It’s The Chicago Manual of Detecting. I keep it in my car for reference and such.”

  Bean was looking at me. “Felix, did you hear what she said?”

  “Yes. I knew someone was trying to kill me.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “It sounded crazy. Also—well, I thought I knew who it was,” I said, avoiding meeting Felix B’s eye.

  “I’ll let Ham tell the story,” said Mrs. Noor. “I had my suspicions, but he did the legwork. Go ahead, Ham, dear.”

  Ham pulled out a notepad identical to the one carried by his mother, though his was blue, and flipped it open. “Item one. Tuesday. Subject trails client on Route 1 from San Francisco to Carmel Beach in car driven by male companion of subject. Also present in vehicle, one almost-dog and client’s alter.”

  I remembered that Mrs. Noor had said one of her children didn’t seem to be cut out for a detective. Ham seemed very detectivish to me.

  “Granola James and Gabriella Short, employees of Past & Future, drove Felix B down to Carmel,” elaborated Mrs. Noor. “They were right behind you for a while. A light green convertible with its top up. Ham was right behind them trying to figure out what was going on.”

  “We showed them the contract I signed. Out of the window of Bean’s Beetle,” I said.

  “Showed her the contract?” Mrs. Noor said. “She can’t have been happy about that. I imagine she felt you escaping her grip, going out of her sight. Perhaps with slightly more detail, Ham, please,” she added.

  “Item two. Wednesday. Subject observed going into premises of Carmel B&B where client staying. Time: around midnight. Reason: unknown. Unable to ascertain.”

  I recalled the item that had almost sent me crashing down the stairs at the Be Mine Inn. Had Gabriella snuck into the B&B after everyone had retired, unscrewed a light bulb, and arranged the rolling pin where I, the only occupant of the upper floor with its one tower room, would be bound to step on it in the dark and lose my balance and take a tumble down the stairs? It was such a classic mystery story scenario that I couldn’t believe someone had done it for real.

  “Item three. Friday. Subject back in her own car. Black Speedster. Lost track of whereabouts in city traffic—”

  “Wait,” I interrupted. “That’s Gabriella’s car? The car as sleekly black as the inside of a nonstick pan? The car that keeps trying to run me over?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Mrs. Noor said. “It’s a rental,” she added as if that was somehow relevant.

  “Later regained eyes on subject,” Ham continued. “Item four. Six minutes ago. Subject attempts to laser client. Thwarted by Mother and self.” He snapped his notebook shut.

  Mrs. Noor smiled at Felix B. “This Felix contacted me not long after you did. Had a problem. Wanted to know more about his Universe A alter, had been informed by DIM that he was in
town. Client confidentiality prohibited me from telling either of you that I had met the other one, but I gave you what information I could about each other. And when Felix B called me, concerned about Gabriella’s behavior—he found some of her questions about you, Felix, quite odd—I had Ham look into it.”

  “She wanted to know if I thought you liked swimming alone or if you ever took walks unaccompanied late at night,” my alter ego said.

  “Very perceptive of you, Felix. And so I had Ham keep an eye on Gabriella,” Mrs. Noor went on. “Ham followed her here, watched as she waited in her car until you went inside, and then concealed herself in the shrubbery. Highly concerned, he called me for backup. I came as fast as I could. I ran into Felix B at the garden gate.”

  “I’m bringing Aunt Henrietta her character kit for tonight’s mystery dinner,” Felix said, explaining the sizable rectangular box he was carrying.

  “Unfortunately,” said Mrs. Noor, “Gabriella was able to get a single blast off before I could knock the laserinne out of her hands with this.” She held up The Chicago Manual of Detecting. “As I said, I like to keep it around for emergencies.”

  The Manual was twice the width and height of The Nine Tailors and looked like it could take the first edition Aunt Henrietta had given me, even before it had gotten perforated while saving my life, easily in a fair fight. Eying the still-smoldering Dorothy Sayers in my hands and reflecting that Professor Maximilian was right and that little things—like what reading material you happened to have around—mattered, I asked, “But why? Why did she do it?”

  “The old story,” sighed Mrs. Noor. “Revenge.”

  [35]

  THE MOTIVE

  I had almost forgotten she was there, as impossible as that seemed. Gabriella Short fixed her gray eyes on me and said only one word, then looked away.

  “You.”

  “But what did I do?” I asked quite stupidly.

  “You ruined her chance of being an actress,” Mrs. Noor said. “There can only be one Gabriella Love.”