by JoAnna Carl
For a boat lover, the yacht was well worth seeing. It was at least a forty-eight-footer, with three decks. It was shiny and white, with cantilevered companionways between decks. Apparently a bar had been set up on the upper deck, because that was where the main crowd was.
“She is a beauty,” Aunt Nettie said. “I wonder what her name is.”
Just at that moment, I caught a glimpse of her prow, and the name emerged into plain view.
“La Paloma.”
I should have known.
Chapter 10
Any real mystery reader or film noir fan would know about La Paloma.
“How clever!” I said. “I wasn’t expecting a yacht right out of the movie!”
Then, since Aunt Nettie had never read the book or seen the movie, I had to explain that La Paloma was the name of a ship in The Maltese Falcon.
“Interesting,” she said. “I would have guessed it was named after the famous song, but the La Paloma yacht certainly fits right in with the festival.”
“Except that the La Paloma in the book is a freighter. And it’s not ‘the La Paloma,’” I said. “I just reread the book, and in it Sam Spade explains why ‘the La Paloma’ is incorrect. ‘La’ means ‘the’ in Italian, so you don’t need both words. ‘The La Paloma’ would mean ‘the the dove.’ So don’t tell me that reading mysteries isn’t educational!”
Aunt Nettie smiled. “Whatever they call it, it’s nice to have an elegant boat here for the festival. I wonder who found it and invited them.”
“I understand the owner is an expert on Dashiell Hammett. Mary Kay found him.”
“Mary Kay McCurley? Is she chair again?”
“I think Warner Pier would have to give up the film festival without her.”
We joined the crowd under the party tent, and Aunt Nettie spotted a chair. She led me and my crutch to it, then immediately turned to talk with someone. She rarely left the shop, but knew everybody in Warner Pier; I hadn’t figured out how she did it. I guessed it was because all the chocolate lovers in town hung out at TenHuis Chocolade, and who isn’t a chocolate lover?
To my surprise, Joe showed up at my elbow. “You must have been on the way here when I called,” I said.
He nodded. “I heard your message. I’m surprised you’re not at the hospital.”
“Tess is planning to stay there all evening, and I’ll go in as soon as I leave here. But this afternoon Aunt Nettie and I spent a couple of hours trying to figure out where Jeff was before he came to our house. We found out something interesting, but I don’t want to tell you about it in this crowd.”
Joe nodded. “Later, then. How about a glass of wine? White?”
“Sure. But I imagine you want to get a gander at the yacht. I don’t want to hold you up.”
“Do you want to take the tour?”
“I’m afraid the crutch might be a problem. Dr. Jenkins is a boater, and I don’t want him to catch me walking on this ankle.”
“We can probably get you into a boat and over there. You might not want to climb every companionway, but I’m sure they have a good place for you to sit. I’ll find out how to get us on the list. We all have to take turns because everybody wants to see the yacht.”
Joe headed for the bar, and I scanned the crowd. Still no sign of Hogan. But I did see Mary Kay, so I beckoned to her. One thing about using a crutch is that people wait on you. She came right over, gave me an air kiss, and pulled up a chair. “Hi, Lee.”
“Mary Kay, how’d you line up La Paloma? And this speaker who’s such an expert?”
Mary Kay was an important part of the Warner Pier arts crowd. Creatively she was a weaver, and her studio was full of wall hangings, scarves, and place mats. Personally she kept her hair touched up and worked out, so she was definitely buff. Financially, like many artists, Mary Kay relied on a day job to keep the bills paid. She was assistant manager of our local branch bank, and for this party she was wearing her bank uniform: khaki slacks and a dark blue polo shirt with a logo on the pocket.
“The yacht is the perfect gimmick!” I said.
Mary Kay grinned. “I guess I should preen at the appearance of La Paloma, but I had nothing to do with it. The boat and its owner just showed up. He called me a couple of weeks ago, said he was a Maltese Falcon hobbyist, sent pictures of the yacht, and offered to take part. I checked into it and found out that he’s spoken at a lot of noir conferences.”
“Did you have to promise not to burn the boat up, the way they do in the book and the film?”
“No arson allowed! We don’t have to be that authentic.”
We both laughed, and I asked another question. “Mary Kay, is there a vendor named Valk signed up for the festival?”
“Valk? I don’t think so.”
At that point Mary Kay jumped up to glad-hand someone else. As I turned away from her, I saw Aunt Nettie. Hogan had joined her, and she was excitedly talking to him, probably describing our discovery of Valk Souvenirs. I hoped no one overheard her. Almost immediately someone interrupted her, and I could see Hogan mouth, “Later” to her.
It’s hard to see what’s going on at a party when you’re sitting in a chair, but I kept scanning the room. Lots of the participants had gotten into the spirit of “Tough Guys and Private Eyes.” There were at least a dozen fedoras, and I saw a sprinkling of double-breasted suits, vests, slinky dresses from the 1930s, and plenty of pinstripes. I saw Noel Kayro in animated conversation with someone, looking more period than ever. His wide-brimmed hat was worn tilted to one side.
Then the crowd parted, and I saw the most stunning sight of all. It appeared to be Sydney Greenstreet, in the flesh. And any noir fan knows that Sydney Greenstreet had a lot of flesh.
Greenstreet was the great character actor who portrayed Kasper Gutman, one of the main characters in the best-known film version of The Maltese Falcon. His large size and his suave aura were perfect for the role.
The man I saw across the room was both tall and large. He even had the thin white hair that Sydney Greenstreet had. He was dressed in 1930s yachting clothes—a blue blazer and white slacks. His shoes were white as well, and they weren’t modern canvas boating shoes. They were white leather oxfords, again straight out of the 1930s.
I was sure I had never seen him before. I couldn’t forget a person that distinctive. So I was surprised when he looked at me directly, and his face lit up. He waddled toward me, smiling. He was acting as if we were old pals.
I racked my brain, but I still couldn’t remember ever meeting such a person. But when he arrived in front of me, it was impossible to ignore his outstretched hand.
“Mrs. Woodyard,” he said in an insinuating voice. “My inspiration.”
I nearly yanked my hand away. What did he mean? “Have we met?” I asked.
“Not in person. But we’ve spoken.” He gave a little bow. “I am Abel Grossman.”
A memory began to stir, but it didn’t exactly bubble to the surface. I must still have looked blank, because the man spoke again.
“You kindly put me in contact with the mold maker who provided me with the wonderful souvenirs for this wonderful occasion.”
He reached into an inner pocket and produced a small object hanging from a chain. He handed it to me, and I saw that it was a miniature version of the famous figurine in The Maltese Falcon. It was made of black plastic, and it had rhinestone eyes. It was about an inch high.
“Please accept this small token of my appreciation,” he said.
I took the necklace. “Memory finally stirs! You called about having the molds made. And our chocolate mold maker wouldn’t help you.”
“No, but he referred me to a more suitable company. So ultimately you were responsible for the falcon molds.”
I looked the little black bird over. “This is lovely.”
“I appreciated your referral.”
/> “It was no trouble. All I had to do was reach for my Rolodex.” I held the small falcon up. “This is a great souvenir.”
I extended it back toward him, but he shook his head. “It’s for you. I plan to give them away, and I’d like you to have the first one.”
“Thank you! And it won’t melt the way our chocolate version will. I only wish I had a chocolate one to give you in exchange. I’ll make sure that you get several tomorrow.”
Joe came back then, and I introduced him to Grossman. We all chatted politely, and I asked Grossman how he had known who I was, since we had never met. Mary Kay McCurley had told him I was using a crutch, he said.
Grossman told us he was from New York State and kept his yacht on Lake Erie, not too far from Buffalo. We made polite remarks about how far he’d come for the film festival. Grossman in turn told us his crew had brought the boat through Lakes Erie and Huron, then along most of Lake Michigan to reach Warner Pier. He himself had flown here, he said.
“You are a real hobbyist,” I said. With a fortune to spend on your hobby, I thought.
“I’m not a hobbyist at all,” Grossman replied. “The black bird is my lifework.”
If that remark left me looking as amazed as Joe did, my lower jaw must have been resting on my bosom. The Maltese Falcon book and film are works of art, true, but how could they be a “lifework”?
Joe took a guess at an explanation. “Are you a researcher?” he asked.
“Ah yes,” Grossman said. I’d already noticed that he was using the somewhat affected manner of speaking that Sydney Greenstreet used in the motion picture. “I am a researcher. And a collector. Also a speaker and a writer on the topic of Hammett’s great novel.”
He gestured toward the river. “I hope both of you are coming out to La Paloma for my announcement.”
“Announcement?” Joe sounded wary.
Grossman shook a finger. “Oh yes. This festival is the beginning for a new project for me. I’d like you both to be present when I announce it.”
Mary Kay appeared at his elbow, and Grossman moved away.
“Well, Joe,” I said, “do you think you can get me into a rowboat and onto that yacht—without a hoist? I’m not a lightweight.”
“Tony is here. He’ll help lift.”
Tony Herrera was an old friend of Joe’s, and, yes, he was strong and agile. So we put our empty wineglasses on the table and moved to the dock, where people were lining up for yacht tours. Tony joined us, and he and Joe were able to lower me into the small boat without dropping me overboard. The man at the oars assured us he and Joe could help me out at the other end of the trip. And inside of five minutes I was settled in the main lounge of La Paloma and had accepted a new glass of white wine from a steward in a white jacket.
The yacht was beautiful, and I wasn’t surprised to see that it had 1930s decor. Its design was stark, with cantilevered stairways—boat people call them “companionways”—connecting the three deck levels. The dominant color scheme was white for draperies and furniture, with bright-colored cushions. There were a lot of chrome accents. Of course, in the film La Paloma is a freighter. I couldn’t see that the yacht had any direct connection with The Maltese Falcon, but it was beautiful in its own way. Which was not my way, but it was worth seeing.
Joe toured the whole yacht, paying special attention to the mechanical aspect, the way a boat lover should. Most of the boat fanatics hovered on the “flying bridge,” an extra open-air bridge that is on the highest point of the vessel. I always kidded Joe that it was there so that the captain could run the boat and join the party at the same time. Which was okay when the boat was anchored in a river, as La Paloma was that evening.
After thirty minutes or so, Joe came back, sat beside me, and gave an enthusiastic report on the yacht’s amenities and modern technical equipment. He’d met the captain, and was obviously impressed with the man’s knowledge of his craft in two senses of the word—both his nautical skills and the particular boat he was in charge of.
The man knew his job, Joe said, and also had every detail of La Paloma’s abilities and equipment stored in his brain. The only thing Joe had missed about him, it seemed, was his name.
“I just called him ‘captain,’” he said.
By that time, I noted, most of the film festival committee was present. Mary Kay McCurley took a seat near us.
She didn’t look entirely happy. “I wish I knew what’s going on,” she said. “Grossman says he has an announcement.”
“He told us that, too, but he didn’t explain.”
Mary Kay shrugged. “He didn’t tell me either. But I doubt it’s about the film festival. And that’s my big deal right at the moment.”
Sure enough, in a few minutes Grossman took his place at the top of the companionway between the lower deck and the next one up. He leaned on the banister and some shrimpy guy who looked a lot like Wilmer, another of the characters in The Maltese Falcon film, rang a gong to attract the group’s attention. About fifty people were now present, and we all looked at Grossman.
Grossman formally welcomed everyone to his yacht and assured us that the bar would continue to be open indefinitely.
“This is a wonderful occasion,” he said. “A tribute to a great American motion picture and a great—perhaps the greatest—American novel.”
There was a retired English professor in the room, and I saw him raise his eyebrows. The Maltese Falcon is certainly highly regarded, but calling it “the greatest American novel” might be going overboard. I didn’t leap to my feet to argue.
Grossman continued. “And I admit,” he said, “I freely admit that I am one of that small group of people who believe that Hammett’s masterpiece had its own mysteries.
“Its own mysteries,” he repeated in a dramatic manner, “as yet unsolved.”
Mary Kay rolled her eyes like a teenager.
And Grossman spoke again. “Because of my belief, I am willing to sponsor a competition. I will offer a prize to the person who offers me a clue to the whereabouts of another statue of the Maltese Falcon. A prize of one hundred thousand dollars.”
At which point Mary Kay did more than roll her eyes. She stood up and stalked to the aft railing. She looked so angry I almost thought she was going to jump over it and swim ashore.
Chapter 11
We left shortly after the big announcement, sharing the small boat with Mary Kay. Her eyes were still rolling in disbelief, and her voice showed her annoyance.
“I just can’t believe Grossman has taken over our festival that way,” she said. “It’s a good thing he didn’t get too near the rail. I might have shoved him over.”
She turned to Joe. “What is the definition of a ‘mountebank,’ anyway?”
“A fake? A show-off? Mary Kay, I’m no expert on vocabulary, but Lee’s got a dictionary over in her office.”
“I can look it up on my smartphone,” I said. “Why are you so upset, Mary Kay?”
“This festival is about film noir as an art form. It’s not a Maltese Falcon convention. I don’t want people going off on a treasure hunt for some nonexistent falcon.”
Joe’s voice grew thoughtful. “One hundred thousand dollars is big money.”
“The whole thing is ridiculous! You notice he didn’t say he’d buy such a statue.”
“How much would it be worth?” Joe said.
Mary Kay shrugged, and I answered, “I believe one of the two known to be in existence sold several years ago for something over four million dollars.”
Joe looked astonished. “You’re kidding! A movie prop?”
“Right,” I said. “It’s just made of plaster or something. No jewels, no famous artist. If you found it in your attic, you might toss it out. But because it’s associated with a famous film, it’s worth millions.”
At the dock Tony and Joe helped me out of the boat, a
nd we said good-bye to Mary Kay. Her back looked stiff and huffy as she walked away.
“Poor Mary Kay,” I said. “Grossman completely stole the limelight.”
Joe laughed. “Are you going to see Jeff?”
It was just six o’clock, and Warner Pier restaurants didn’t fill up until seven, at least in June. We decided to grab a quick sandwich at the Sidewalk Café, one of the restaurants Joe’s stepfather owned, then drive on to the hospital to see Jeff.
Over dinner I told Joe about the explorations Aunt Nettie and I had made that afternoon, including the Valk-Falcone connection.
“Hogan may be able to figure out how it fits together,” Joe said. “He knows the right people to talk to. But between the names and the nearness to the site of Jeff’s accident, the Valk people are definitely due some questions.”
“I hope Jeff has remembered everything and can give us some explanation of why the heck he climbed into our attic,” I said. “That’s the most peculiar part to me.”
When we got to the hospital we found Jeff’s room completely quiet. Jeff was sleeping, or at least dozing, and Tess was reading a paperback book she had bought in the hospital gift shop. The scene was almost domestic.
When we opened the door, she put a finger to her lips, then went outside with us.
“The doctor is saying Jeff still needs to be very quiet,” she said. “He wants to keep him here for another day or two.”
“Has Jeff remembered anything?” I asked.
“Not really. He says he has a vague recollection of branches flying around—I guess that was the wreck. And he remembers being frightened. He keeps saying ‘I was scared’ and ‘There was some crazy guy.’ But how this fits in with climbing into your attic . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t understand it.”
“Jeff must have been hiding from someone,” Joe said. “Or at least he thought he was hiding from someone. That’s the only explanation I can think of. We can only hope he remembers who it was, but we have to accept the fact that he may not.”