Vanity Fire

by John M. Daniel

  Vanity Fire

  Vanity Fire

  John M. Daniel

  http://www.danielpublishing.com/about_john_daniel.html

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright © 2006 by John M. Daniel

  First Edition 2006

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2006900746

  ISBN: 1-59058-322-1 Hardcover

  ISBN: 978-1-61595-034-8 Epub

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  The people and events described or depicted in this novel are fictitious and any resemblance to actual incidents or individuals is unintended and coincidental.

  Poisoned Pen Press

  6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103

  Scottsdale, AZ 85251

  www.poisonedpenpress.com

  info@poisonedpenpress.com

  Dedication

  For Susan, as always,

  and for my heroes,

  Morgan Daniel and Ben Daniel,

  and for their families

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part II

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part III

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Acknowledgments

  In the spirit of full disclosure, I must state that there is a city called Santa Barbara, California, and that I lived there for twenty years, during which time I was a small-press publisher. I also acknowledge that a few celebrities walk on and off these pages in cameo roles. But this is a work of fiction. All the other characters, including Guy Mallon and Carol Murphy, are entirely fictitious, and the events are entirely invented. Any similarity to real people or real events would be a big surprise to me.

  Having said that, I’m safe in saying that without the partnership of Susan Daniel I would not have been a publisher, and without her companionship I would not have written this book. I thank Channing Bates for introducing me to Santa Barbara, Julie and Don Steele for introducing me to the Bay Islands of Honduras, and Meredith Phillips for introducing me to the pleasures of mystery fiction. I owe a great deal to the Great Intenders—Lance Hardie, Mary Wilbur, Dick Stull, Nancy Only, and Janine Volkmar—for their support, valuable constructive critique, and invaluable friendship while this novel was in progress. Thanks also to Robert Rosenwald and Barbara Peters and everyone else connected with Poisoned Pen Press.

  —JMD

  Epigraph

  Then I saw in my dream, that, when they were got out of the wilderness, they presently saw a town before them, and the name of that town is Vanity; and at the town there is a fair kept, called Vanity Fair. It is kept all the year long….

  Therefore at this fair are all such merchandise sold as houses, lands, trades, places, honors, preferments, titles, countries, kingdoms, lusts, pleasures, and delights of all sorts, as whores, bawds, wives, husbands, children, masters, servants, lives, blood, bodies, souls, silver, gold, pearls, precious stones, and what not.

  And, moreover, at this fair there are at all times to be seen juggling, cheats, games, plays, fools, apes, knaves, and rogues, and that of every kind.

  Here are to be seen, too, and that for nothing, thefts, murders, adulteries, false swearers, and that of a blood-red color.

  —John Bunyan, The Pilgrim’s Progress

  Prologue

  Saturday evening, no, actually it was Sunday morning, September 9-10, 1995. It was almost two in the morning when I got home. We lived on the East Side of Santa Barbara, a neighborhood of small houses and bungalows that was rapidly being munched by developers and turned into condos. Most of our neighbors spoke Spanish. The only Spanish the developers knew was the names of the streets in the neighborhoods they were destroying.

  I parked on the street, even though I expected there was still room for my car in the garage. But the garage was Carol’s space, and even though she’d been gone for a week, I still hoped she’d be back.

  I got out of my car and stretched in the hot night. A Santa Ana wind had blown down from the mountains earlier that evening, raising the temperature twenty degrees and drying the air out. We get a lot of Santa Anas in the early fall, and that year they had been worse than ever. The town was a tinder box, too, whenever the Santa Anas blew through. People of Santa Barbara bragged about how long they’d lived there by remembering fires.

  I locked my car and walked up the pathway to the front door. I let myself in as quietly as I could. I didn’t want to wake Carol, on the off chance she had returned to our bed, to our house, to our business, to my life. And if she was home, I didn’t want to wake her up and have to tell her where I’d been that night, and with whom, and what I’d been doing. I tiptoed back to our bedroom and peeked in. The bed was made and empty.

  I walked out to the kitchen and switched on the light. Her note was still on the counter, where it had been for seven days.

  Guy,

  I’ve had it. I’m going for a drive. I’m going north, as far as I can get from this stupid city, this stupid business, and you. I love you, you little shmuck, but this time you really fucked up big.

  C

  She had me there. I had fucked up big.

  ***

  I lay on our bed for an hour without getting any sleepier. I was stripped down to my undershorts on top of the bedspread. I was still wide awake shortly after three in the morning when the phone rang on the table next to Carol’s side. I rolled over and picked up the receiver. “Hello? Carol?”

  “Is this Guy Mallon?”

  I sighed. “Speaking,” I answered. “Who is this? You know, it’s three in the morning.”

  “I’m very sorry, Mister Mallon. This is Detective Rosa Macdonald, Santa Barbara Police Department. I—”

  “Oh no!” I said. “What happened? Is she all right?”

  “Mister Mallon, I’m afraid I have some very serious news for you.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, but there’s been a major fire at the old DiClemente Avocado warehouse. As I understand it, you’ve been using that warehouse space for your business. Is that right?”

  I breathed. “Thank God. I mean, is that all?”

  “I’m afraid the fire damage was…complete,” the detective said. “And I need to talk to you. We have a witness here who reports that your car was parked in the DiClemente warehouse lot from about nine till sometime after ten this evening.”

  “Nope,” I said. “I’ve been with my car all evening, and I never was in the warehouse parking lot. Not tonight anyway.”

  “You weren’t in the neighborhood at all?”

  “Well, I was on that side of the freew
ay for a while, but not within half a mile of the warehouse. Who says I was there?”

  “Just that your car was there,” Detective Macdonald corrected me. “Red seventy-six Volvo, license plate GFA 096.”

  I gasped. “Where’s that car now?” I asked. “Where is it? Still there?”

  “No, sir. The parking lot’s empty. But that is your station wagon?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s my partner’s car.”

  “I see,” she said. “Can you tell me how I can reach your partner, sir?”

  “No. I wish to hell I could.” Then I asked, “Did you say police department? Is the fire department there?”

  “Yes sir. They’ve done all they could. I’m afraid there wasn’t much left to save. We believe the fire began about ten-thirty. Old wooden building. Took about three hours to burn.”

  “And you’re with the police?” I asked again.

  “Yes sir. I’m an arson investigator.”

  “Arson?”

  “Mister Mallon, I’m stuck here for another couple of hours. Any chance you could come down here to the site and talk with me? I have a few questions—”

  “That seventy-six Volvo,” I asked. “It never showed up again?”

  “No sir, not yet anyway. Can you get down here? I have to hang up now. I’ve got people waiting to speak to me.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I said. “Listen, if that red station wagon shows up again? Tell her to wait for me. I’ll be right there.”

  Part I

  Chapter One

  I can tell you exactly when and where this mess began. Tuesday, June 28, 1994. Carol was out of the office on her morning rounds when the phone rang. I answered, “Guy Mallon Books.”

  “Is this Guy Mallon?” The voice was gravelly but friendly. “The Guy Mallon?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Mister Mallon, my name is Fritz Marburger. I don’t expect you’ve heard of me, but if you have the time I’d like to take you and your wife to lunch today to discuss an idea I have.”

  Oh right. Publisher beware. “Mister Marburger,” I said, “I’m not married. I do have a business partner, but she’s not my wife. I appreciate the offer, but we’re busy today, and—”

  “We could make it tomorrow,” he said. “I’m free all week. One of the joys of being retired. Also one of the curses.”

  “Look, maybe I should cut to the chase and save us both some time. If you’re looking to sell me stocks or real estate, I’m not interested. If you’re a poet and you have a manuscript to show me, you’re welcome to drop it off and I’ll look at it when I can find the time. But it won’t do you any good to take Carol and me to lunch, because—”

  He cut me off with a jolly, gruff laugh. “Hey, Guy, I hear you, but let me cut to my own chase. Give me just a minute. I’m not selling a thing, and I’m not a poet. Jesus Christ, that’s for sure. I’m a retired businessman. I had a long and successful career in mergers and acquisitions. Now I’m out of work and I’m bored. I’m bored stiff. So I thought it would be fun to invest a little money in a small local business and see what might happen. I’ve been asking around, and some of the people here at Casa Dorinda are saying nice things about Guy Mallon Books. So I’d like to get to know you. I’m thinking of rolling the dice with maybe fifty grand, if I feel it’s a good fit. If not, I’ll keep looking. That’s all. It’s worth a lunch, especially since I’m buying. So if you have the time tomorrow, what say we meet at the El Encanto, say twelve-thirty?”

  Casa Dorinda was a retirement home in Montecito for the wealthy. Residents there bought a lot of our poetry books from Tecolote Books, a nearby independent bookstore. So far, so good. Besides, lunch at El Encanto? “Well, tomorrow’s busy, actually, but today’s free after all.”

  “Grand.” Wealthy people say grand a lot, I’ve found. “Twelve-thirty?”

  “Swell,” I answered.

  I was hanging up just as Carol walked through the front door, carrying the day’s mail. She plopped the pile of mail on my desk. “Guess what,” I said. “We’re having lunch at El Encanto today.”

  “How sweet of you!”

  “Not me,” I said. “Fritz Marburger’s the sweet one.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s interested in our company. He has some money to invest and for some reason he wants to scout us out. I figure it won’t do us any harm to—”

  “Oh, shoot!” Carol said. “I’m getting my hair cut at one o’clock. Remember?”

  “Damn, I forgot. Well, maybe I can call him back and reschedule.”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “You go on without me. You can tell me about it this afternoon.”

  “But it’s a business deal,” I said. “You’re the business manager. I’m just an editor. What do I know about business?”

  Carol chuckled. “You don’t know squat. But you’re a dreamer, Guy. And you know how to listen. See what he has to offer and we’ll talk about it. But before you accept any money from this hotshot?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “I want to hear the string section.”

  ***

  “Look at that God damned view,” Fritz Marburger remarked as we waited for our entrees to arrive. We sipped a local Chardonnay on the terrace of the El Encanto, a quiet and elegant restaurant high on the Santa Barbara Riviera, with the red-roofed city laid out below us like a bowl emptying into the harbor. Palm trees lined the beach and sailboats bobbed on the sapphire bay. Out on the horizon floated the Channel Islands; the air was so clear you could see, or at least imagine, the canyons on their hillsides.

  Mr. Marburger was a tall, skinny man with a Walter Matthau grin, sparkling Sinatra eyes, and a forest of unruly gray hair, which he combed with his fingers throughout our conversation. He wore a tweed jacket and a plaid shirt. “I got to admit,” he added, “Santa Barbara’s easy on the eyes. I could get used to this town.”

  “How long have you been here, Mister Marburger?” I asked.

  “Call me Fritz. Five years. The five slowest years of my life. Used to live in Chicago, but when I retired my wife insisted that we come out here and quote take it easy for a change unquote, move into that morgue in Montecito, play a little golf. Which was fine for her till she died two years ago, God damn her, and now here I am, twiddling my God damned thumbs, surrounded by beautiful scenery and beautiful rich widows.”

  “Too bad.”

  He laughed. “Just kidding. The widows leave me alone. I guess I’m too hot to handle. Actually, I’ve been seeing—I guess that’s the way you say it—a younger lady lately, as you may know.”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, should I know?”

  “You don’t read the Santa Barbara News-Press?”

  “Not the society page.”

  He chuckled. “Good man,” he said. He reached into the breast pocket of his tweed jacket and handed me a small package wrapped in gold paper and tied up with a silver ribbon. “My lady friend wanted me to give you this.” He handed the package to me.

  “Feels like a CD,” I said, pulling on the ribbon.

  “Don’t open it now,” Fritz said. “Wait till you get back to the office. Ah, here’s lunch.” I slid the package into the side pocket of my jacket.

  A uniformed waiter opened up a folding stand next to our table, where he placed a large tray. He proceeded to put plates before us: I had pumpkin soup and the crab melt with shoestring fries and Fritz had a huge Cobb salad showered with roquefort dressing. The waiter refilled our wineglasses, asked if we wanted anything more, and bowed when he was excused.

  “Not bad,” Fritz pronounced after a few bites. “I like this joint. I happen to know the maître d’, personal friend of mine. So when did you come to Santa Barbara, or have you always had it this good?”

  “I came here in nineteen seventy-seven,” I answered. “I was just passing through. Bought a bookstore that was going out of business, then somehow got into the publishing busin
ess through the back door, almost by accident. Carol Murphy became my partner a few years later, and now we’re working our butts off, doing what we love.”

  “Doing pretty well, from all I hear,” he said.

  I shrugged. “For a rinkydink little West Coast poetry publisher, I guess you could say we’re doing all right. We pay the rent. We’ve had some good luck. One of our authors was Poet Laureate for a couple of years, and that helped. But it’s not an easy way to make a living. We pay the rent and that’s about it.”

  “Seems to me you could do better. I mean, publishing poetry, for God’s sake? Does anybody read poetry anymore? I’ll bet the bookstore’s what’s paying the rent.”

  “Nope. That was a total loss. We quit selling books years ago. It’s all publishing now, and yes, there are a few readers left. We can sell a thousand copies of anything we publish. We’re not getting rich, but we’re having fun.”

  “You’re not interested in growing?”

  “Growing?”

  “Hey, I don’t mean anything personal. No offense, okay? How tall are you, anyway? Just curious.”

  “Five feet. No offense taken.” I’m quite used to being the shortest man in any crowd. That doesn’t bother me, but rude people give me a pain in the ass.

  “Well, I’m talking business, is all. That’s what I mean by growing. You may be stuck at five feet, but you could get a lot bigger in other ways.” Fritz pointed at me with a forkful of lettuce. “Thousand copies? That’s chickenshit, pardon my God damned French. You can actually live on that? What do you eat for dinner, pork and beans?” Then he glared and shook his head. “Sorry. It’s just that numbers like that tend to make me sleepy, know what I mean?”

  “I think I do,” I said. “This crab melt is so good I’m going to finish it before I walk out. I hope you don’t mind.” I took a bite. Fuckin jerk.

  But then he turned his glare into a grin and said, “Hey, Guy. Don’t get me wrong. I’m just needling your ass. Thing is, I know you can do better. I’ve made a career out of recognizing talent, and you’ve got it. But a thousand copies? Poetry? Give me a break. You can do better.” He poked his forkful of lettuce into his mouth and started chewing at me. “A lot better than a thousand copies. We’re going to get you and your partner into play, my friend. And it ain’t going to be with poetry. A thousand copies. Shit. Let’s forget tiddlywinks, shall we? How much would it cost to publish a real book? A big book, couple of hundred pages, hardback, first class all the way, ten-twelve thousand copies. Huh? How much.”