by Amanda Cross
“So the police turned their attentions to the English department, which in turn called upon you,” Kate suggested.
“That’s more or less how it happened. Hal, the older son, still thought his stepmother could have sneaked into the department and written the letter to draw suspicion away from herself, but he agreed to let the department hire me in their turn to discover if their favorite suspect could have committed the crime. I wasn’t that eager to take the job, frankly. The college is in New Jersey, which is a bit of a drag, and the police are from there and not that welcoming to private eyes, less so to women. The New York police have kind of gotten used to us.”
“Did the whole department agree about hiring you?”
“Not the whole department, no. I think it was only one or two of them. The accusation seemed to be focused upon a woman in the department whom Charles had frustrated at every turn. I guess my being a woman helped here too; they thought I might understand the feelings of the suspect better than a man. And I didn’t have to investigate the case all over again from the beginning, as a new detective would have been obliged to do.”
“Let me guess,” Kate said. “Charles was anti-feminist, misogynistic, and generally the worst sort of old boy who devoutly wished women had never been admitted to higher education in the first place. It had been such a comfortable, chummy, male world before the female intrusion.”
“You got it. I guess Claire Wiseman was right about your being the person who could help me with this case. She knew this other woman who’d formerly been in the department, and when she heard I was taking on the case, she suggested that I get in touch with you for stuff about academic departments that puzzled me. I’m afraid that’s just about everything.”
“If I can unravel the syntax, I may be able to help. Pronouns are the main problem; it takes a while for the listener to attach them to the right person. I’ve tried talking about cases to someone who didn’t know the cast of characters, and I was always saying, not that one, the other one who . . . You’re doing very well so far.”
I heaved a great sigh and plunged in again. “Anyway, two men in the department had decided to hire me to find the murderer, before Claire heard about it. These two men are the only ones who can afford my price, though maybe there are other sympathizers. Investigating the family was right up my alley. But what do I know about English departments? Are they really likely to harbor a murderer, and is resenting female professors and graduate students a sane motive?”
“Yes to the first question,” Kate said, “but they usually go about it in less physical ways: murdering the spirit, you might say. There was a case like that that I was involved in many years ago. Yes also to the second question; if any motive for murder can be considered sane, there are endless possibilities once you’ve eliminated relatives. Most murders happen between members of the family, so Hallam may turn out to be right after all. But academic departments are as likely to harbor a lunatic, or a fanatic, as are banks, law offices, the stock exchange, or anywhere else you can mention. I will admit, however, that most professors prefer less physical murder if it is available to them.”
“Does that mean you think it was likelier to be the family, or that some professor may have been pushed too far?” I realized that a plaintive note had crept into my voice. “Not that you can decide on the basis of what I’ve told you so far; I do understand that. I just wondered what your first reactions were.”
“To you or to the case?” Kate asked, her smile softening the directness of the question.
“Both, I guess. If we join forces, we can call ourselves Jack Sprat and wife. I do have trouble eating lean.”
“Woody, listen to me. I’m not lean. Like everyone else my age, I’m dealing with gravity, which is to say one’s body keeps migrating downward. I haven’t gained weight, but the jeans I used to wear are now too tight for me over the butt, so I suggest we avoid comparisons. I don’t mind your talking about your size, if it eases life for you, but I’d prefer not to discuss mine. Is it a bargain?”
“Not if you don’t help me with the case,” I said. “If you don’t help, I’ll turn up every other day on your doorstep and comment on your leanness. That’s a threat and a promise.”
“Okay, I’ll help; you must have figured out by now that I’ll help. Ordinarily I don’t react kindly to this kind of request, but I can’t resist the persuasions of fat people. Are we even now?”
“Even,” I said.
“Here’s the arrangement from my point of view,” Kate said. “I’m not a subcontractor, or professional consultant, or any kind of authority with special knowledge. But if you would like to come and visit with Banny, since you’ve been so dog-deprived, she and I will welcome you, given advance notice of your arrival. Is that acceptable?”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
“Meanwhile,” Kate went on, “if you would send me two lists, one of the Haycock family, and one of the English department at the college concerned, I’ll try to get my facts straight. In fact, it would help if you could get me a catalog from the college, or a list of the classes to be taught next semester. I don’t know the college and I ought to learn at least a little about it.”
I walked over to say goodbye to Banny, who looked up and thumped her large tail against the floor. I thought to myself, She’s big like a fat person; it’s work to get up and easier to be agreeable from a reclining position. Besides, when you’re big you have a sense of being in charge, no matter what is likely to occur. That was clearly how Banny felt, and I decided to feel that way too.
“Maybe you and I can take a walk with Banny when all this investigation is over,” I said by way of farewell.
“We’ll both look forward to it,” Kate said. She got up and escorted me to the door. Banny stayed where she was. I would have liked to stay too, but one can’t spend all day talking to professors and admiring large dogs, I firmly reminded myself.
When I got back to my office in Chelsea, once I had dealt with my messages and greeted Octavia, who worked for me as secretary part-time and, as far as I could see, studied law full-time, I allowed myself to sink into a kind of reverie about my visit to Kate Fansler. I am not, by nature, given to “processing” my experiences, to use what one of my clients told me was the term for playing over encounters in search of their meaning. Kate Fansler was an unusual person for me to meet in the line of duty, or outside of it, for that matter. I don’t face quite as many physical dangers as women private eyes do in books, and I don’t meet up with cases because some long-lost relative asks for my help, but I don’t sneer at detective fiction the way some police people do. If books were as dull as most of my cases, no one would read them. I’m willing to do divorce, but it’s not my favorite. It’s a damn good cure, all the same, for dreams about happy marriage. It’s amazing the hate people can develop for those they started out loving. And hate, as any detective or lawyer involved with divorce can tell you, is a lot more powerful than love, and much likelier to become an obsession.
Kate was married—I’d already learned that— and I supposed that the male figure marching past the living room was the man in question, but maybe they’d worked it out better than most. Ever since President Clinton’s sexual escapades, I’ve been convinced, if I hadn’t been before, that no one knows anything about a marriage except the people in it, and they only talk when hate takes over.
The odd thing about my meeting with Kate was that she didn’t ask me how I became a private investigator. She’s the only woman I ever met who didn’t ask that question. They all seem to think there’s some romantic story to be told, even by a fat woman, and they think the likelihood of being shot or beaten up is very high. My experience with guys who try to wrestle or slug me to the ground is that they underestimate my fighting skills and are often not in great shape themselves—shape here referring to physical condition, not bodily contours.
I wondered why she didn’t ask me the usual question. Because she had other ways of finding out, or becau
se she didn’t like personal questions and therefore avoided them, or what? I’d have been glad to tell her, but then I would have been glad to stay and talk about almost anything. One of the disadvantages of this job, which mostly suits me just fine, is that you never get to settle down and just chat with someone. When you’ve asked the necessary questions you get out, and feel lucky not to have been thrown out.
Claire Wiseman told me Kate’s husband was a law professor and used to work in the D.A.’s office, so maybe she knew how people become private investigators, and didn’t like to probe for my personal account. Lots of private eyes have been lawyers, so probably she knew how it went.
That’s the way it went with me. I got out of law school with all the usual ideals, and moved to New York City, where I’d always wanted to be, and became a legal aid lawyer; they’re called public defenders everywhere else, but it’s the same everywhere. They’re the ones who on no notice are provided as lawyers to the poor rats who can’t afford a lawyer of their own. It’s not a bad life. Sometimes you go to trial—I liked that best if there was a decent chance of getting your client off. For the most part, though, you had to realize you were just part of a system for flushing the poor, mostly black, criminals out of sight and out of mind. Still, I did some good, I liked it all right, I was good at it, good with the clients, good at litigation, able to get people to see that even though I was fat and not anybody’s ideal, we all stood a chance. Something like that, anyway.
Then the mayor, Giuliani, it was—I never cared for him—took out after legal services. He got rid of a lot of administrators and supervisors who weren’t pulling their weight, but he also bought out a lot of lawyers, including me. A guy I knew asked me if I’d like to establish a firm with him and another man, and I thought, Why not? I could still be called to defend the same people I’d defended in legal aid, make a decent living, and maybe get some other cases besides. What I discovered was that I really was a loner. Partners were okay—mine were nice enough guys—but I didn’t like having to decide everything after long consultation. I’d hired some private investigators before and after I left legal aid, and the more I saw of them, the more I got the feeling that this was the life for me.
The two guys saw me go with mixed feelings—I think they were undecided about introducing me to some of their clients, and they were embarrassed when our clients always thought I was their secretary. They’ve stayed in touch. They even hire me from time to time and recommend me. By now I’ve got my own place—two rooms, and not grungy like the offices of Spenser or V. I. Warshawski. I like things to be orderly—not necessarily spick-and-span—but I like to know where my stuff is and how I can lay my hands on it.
I’d have liked to have told all this to Kate, maybe just to hear what she’d say, which is odd because mostly I’m bored to death explaining to people what I do and how I came to do it.
The phone rang, and Octavia buzzed through to say it was a client returning my call. I dragged myself out of “processing” my life and came back to living it. I told the caller that I had found the young man who had stolen stock from his store together with the cash in the machine. The kid, which he was, if not a juvenile, had also left the store unattended and unlocked. That the place hadn’t been cleaned out was sheer good fortune—nobody had noticed that it was open to the world, and the owner had returned before any more harm was done. When he came to hire me, I told him that even if he caught the culprit, the merchandise would have been sold—it was unlikely anyone could get it back—and as for the cash, forget it. He said he knew all that, but he was angry and wanted the kid convicted. I could tell, talking to the man, that he had liked and trusted his employee and minded the betrayal of his affection more than the material loss. The kid hadn’t covered his tracks at all.
I surmised, in fact, that he’d been talked into it by one of his buddies and wasn’t unredeemable; but holding out a helping hand to kids from the inner city isn’t possible, as I’d long ago learned in legal aid. I’d offer cigarettes, but there wasn’t much point in offering anything more. They’d been living their desperate lives too long to welcome a helping hand, or to trust it. Well, so it goes. What could you do with a Congress that hated cities, New York most of all, and that got more credit voting money for a new bomber than for help to the inner cities, which, having been rendered hopeless by the politicians in government, were now blamed for being hopeless? It didn’t seem to do anybody any good to think about it.
I decided to call it a day, and said goodbye to Octavia. She would take care of the bills, if any, send out my statements of payment due—I made my progress reports in person or by telephone—and close the office. I’d only been able to afford Octavia in the last year, but I made enough money to warrant it, and I found that having a secretary answer the phone, having an outer office with someone in it, makes a big impression on possible clients trying to estimate my capabilities. Of course, having a secretary says nothing whatever about one’s capabilities, and having her there didn’t make me any better as a private eye, but image is everything in today’s world, and you better not forget it.
Octavia was almost sixty—I suspected she might even be sixty, but didn’t raise the question. Among the many things I’ve learned since being in business for myself is that older people are by far the better employees, particularly in a one-person office with no chance of meeting adorable guys or girl chums to gab with. Octavia is efficient, she likes to have the work and the money—I think the work is the more important—and I keep her happy by telling her enough about my cases to make her feel she’s in my confidence. I suspect her of checking out the law in my cases. She’s loyal to me, and I’m glad of that.
Before leaving the office, I’d asked Octavia to get me the catalog for the college I’d talked to Kate about, and particularly to get a course listing from the English department. She’d probably manage that before she came in tomorrow afternoon. Octavia can talk most people into giving her what she’s after, which in her case is usually paper with information on it. I send her when I don’t want to turn up in person just yet, or haven’t the time. Yes, Octavia is permitted to offer bribes within reason, but we don’t call them bribes; we call them recompense. It can be anything from a fancy lunch to cold cash.
I park my motorcycle in an alley down the street; I pay the super of the building to let me leave it there, which makes us both happy. I enjoy riding my motorcycle; most people with offices or homes on upper floors interviewing me, or I them, don’t know how I got there. Mostly they don’t notice my helmet, even if I’m unable to leave it with the receptionist, if any. New Yorkers aren’t curious about each other outside of personal relationships, and that’s one of the things I like best about New York. Riding a motorcycle is the only way to get around in the city without finding yourself stuck in traffic every other minute. I’m a champion of the subways, but they don’t always go where I’m going. The main point is that I like how it feels to ride around on a motorbike; you see a lot more than from a car, and you can park between any two cars on the street in Midtown. Sometimes I get a ticket, but that’s what I call the expense of doing business.
At home in Park Slope, I leave my bike in the areaway of the two-family house where I live; leaving it there was an arrangement I made when I rented the place, and it’s worked out fine. The owner, with his second wife and assorted children, has the first floor, the basement, and the garden. I have the upper two floors—four rooms, not big, but I can move around when I feel like it, a kitchen, bath, and two fireplaces. I rarely make fires, but a fireplace is something I’ve always wanted and now have. There’s no one to please but me. Nice.
I didn’t go right home. I went to the health club near my office, which I do every day. I think the owner would happily pay me not to come, because I work out really hard and seem to suggest to his customers that this is not the way to lose weight. I don’t take the hint, nor do I admit to the trainer there that I know I’m fat. All I’m interested in is being in good enough sha
pe to deal with what happens, and he has to see I’m fit. Flabby private eyes don’t last long, but it pays to look flabby; I know that.
What I might have told Kate Fansler, but don’t mention to many people, is the advantage being fat gives me in my job, beyond looking vulnerable. You hear a lot of fancy tales about what private eyes do, and they’re not untrue: sneaking into homes and offices, going through garbage, wearing a wire. All of that. But the real talent comes with getting people to talk, relax and talk. And that’s where being fat helps. Whether it’s because I seem unthreatening, because they can despise me for being fat, or because we like to think of fat people as comforting and nurturing, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s because they don’t have to bother to flirt with me. Whatever it is, I have great success in getting the gab going. Most people are dying to talk if you’ll give them a chance. And the ones who play their cards close to the chest may not talk to anyone they perceive as a threat or a competitor, but with a nice fat lady of indeterminate age, hell, why not let it all hang out? I don’t know the reason, but I would have liked to tell Kate Fansler that.
Once home, I took a shower, which I don’t like to do at the gym; everybody walks around naked there, and it’s not my scene. I wear sweats working out. Then I fixed dinner—takeout from the night before, reheated—poured some wine, and went on with my reading of a long, almost impenetrable article the victim, Charles Haycock, had recently written about Tennyson for a learned journal. I don’t think I could have gotten through the damn thing without food and drink. All I’d managed to figure out by the time I’d finished eating was that the most important event in Tennyson’s life happened before he was born, when his grandfather disinherited his father. I don’t know if that’s true, but it sure doesn’t sound like a good reason to become a poet, even if Charles Haycock thought it did. Maybe Kate will explain it.