Vanity Fire

by John M. Daniel

“Ignore him,” Fritz told me.

  “What kind of money?” I repeated.

  “Okay,” Fritz said. “I don’t know how much money Herndon collected on the contracts he sold, but most of the customers paid the whole thing up front. Herndon bragged to me over the summer that he had sold over thirty contracts, all for over twenty thou, and most of them paid in full, up front. So we’re talking over half a mill, minimum, and it could be a lot more by the time that warehouse burned down. He has the money deposited offshore, and seventy-five percent of it is mine. Okay?”

  “But how are you going to meet your obligation to publish all those books? Even if you are in on Roger’s scheme to produce only one copy per title, most likely the production disks were destroyed in the fire, not to mention the DocuTech. You’d have to—”

  “Tough shit. The money’s still ours. There’s an acts-of-God clause in the contract.”

  “That’s not ethical.”

  “Grow up, kid. Now. What did you really want to see me about? You didn’t come all the way to the desert to talk to me about Roger Herndon. What’s on your tiny little mind?”

  I took a deep breath and looked up into his face. “Last spring you said you wanted to acquire Guy Mallon Books. You wanted all our assets, you said, in exchange for which you’d pay all our liabilities.”

  “Yeah, I remember that,” Fritz said, “but it’s all ancient history by now, kiddo. You don’t have any assets anymore, remember? Your inventory burned up, your bank account is zilch, even your office was broken into.”

  I had him. “How did you know about that?”

  “I read the damn paper, for Christ’s sake. Anyway, it’s a moot point. I have no interest in paying your bills. Now if you don’t mind, I want to sink this putt.”

  “Moot point it is,” I agreed. “I can’t sell you the company anyway, because it’s half Carol’s and Carol is incommunicado. Listen, Fritz, you and I both know you never wanted my inventory. You didn’t even want those twenty thousand copies of Lorraine’s novel. That’s not why you made the offer, and that’s not why you broke into my office. You wanted my poetry collection. Right? So okay, I’ll sell. That’s my property, and I need money. I’m afraid I’m desperate.”

  “I wanted your what?”

  “First editions? Post-War Western American poets? Limited, signed, numbered.…”

  Fritz Marburger stared at me with an incredulous grin as I ran out of gas. Then he guffawed. “Jesus, you deluded little doodlebug! Broke into your office? What? And what would I want with a bunch of jerkoff poetry books?”

  “That’s not what you wanted?”

  “Guy, get real. Jesus Christ, poetry books! I wanted your good name, your standing in the publishing community. Why? As a beard, that’s all. A cover. So I could make real money financing Roger Herndon’s POD operation in the back room—in exchange for seventy-five percent of the profits. Which he agreed to. In writing. You and I don’t have a damn thing in writing, and it’s going to stay that way. Okay? I don’t need your good name anymore, because number one, I’m taking my cut and putting Roger out of business, once I find his ass, and number two, your name isn’t worth shit anymore. Okay? Now keep your mouth shut while I sink this putt and play the last four holes. You can ride along with me and watch, but don’t try to talk to me about poetry books or the fucking publishing business. I’ve had it up to here. I play golf to relax, and talking to you is turning into a major chore.”

  He turned to sink his putt, and I turned and walked away from him, toward the foursome waiting impatiently at the fourteenth tee.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Well, in case you’re interested, I found out where Fritz Marburger is.”

  Rosa looked up from her desk, her eyebrow creased with annoyance. “How many times—”

  “Relax,” I told her. “I tracked him down so I could talk to him about a personal business matter. But while I was at it, I learned that he didn’t burn the warehouse down or kill Robert Worsham. Lorraine Evans didn’t either.”

  “Guy, Guy, Guy,” Rosa wailed. “Would you please stop watching cop shows on TV?”

  “Can’t,” I told her. “I don’t own a TV.”

  “Okay. And thanks, I guess. So what’s their alibi?”

  I told her what I had learned in Rancho Mirage. She took notes. I finished with, “But there are still a few unanswered questions.”

  She smirked. “Oh? Such as?”

  “Such as where is Carol Murphy? Where is Roger Herndon? Where is Grace Worth?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I will. I have Missing Persons on all three.”

  “Where is Carol’s car? Where is Commander Worsham’s yacht?”

  “I have to assume the car’s with Miss Murphy. That’s a matter for the DMV. But the yacht turned up. It’s accounted for.”

  “Where, for God’s sake?”

  Rosa shook her head. “I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “Rosa, have I ever actually interfered with your investigation, or are you just being territorial?”

  She squinted at me. “Why do you want to know where this yacht is?”

  “Just curious,” I answered. “Why don’t you want me to know?”

  “Okay, okay,” she said. “I just don’t want you to go play detective again. Can you agree to that?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “That’s a promise?”

  “Where’s the yacht?”

  “It was found abandoned in the Ventura Marina. Worsham’s widow has paid the back rent and is having it brought to Newport Beach, where she plans to sell it. She wanted to put her husband’s ashes on the boat and have the boat set adrift outside the Channel Islands, but the Coast Guard and the Pentecostal Church of Jesus Christ both told her that was a bad idea.”

  “Ventura Marina? That’s like fifty miles south of here.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh, and another thing. Who the hell trashed my office?”

  “We’re working on that.”

  “Isn’t that related to the—”

  “Guy, we’re working on it, I said,” Rosa said. “Leave it to us, okay? Please?”

  ***

  My landlord told me to have the glass door repaired and send him the bill, but I didn’t bother. I went to the office for a few hours every day, where I listened to my phone messages and returned calls to book wholesalers and retail stores, telling them all that Naming Names was out of print and would not be printed again. I told the media and film companies the same thing. Lorraine had made her wishes clear. No more books, no movie. The only people to profit from Naming Names were the collectors lucky enough to have copies of the first printing. The prices on those were rising daily.

  All my other titles were also out of print forever.

  I also spent a couple of hours each day wrapping and boxing my collection of first editions of post-war Western poets. I knew it was just a matter of time before I would be giving up the office for good, and I wanted to have the books ready for the move.

  It had been well over a week since I’d last spoken with Rosa Macdonald. I was finishing up for the day, about to take off for the beach, when the phone rang. I don’t know why I answered it.

  “Guy Mallon.”

  “Guy?”

  Familiar voice.

  “Guy, you there?”

  “Carol? Is that you?” I sat down at my desk. Carefully, so I wouldn’t scare her away. I slipped off my loafers and curled my toes and waited.

  “Hello, Guy.”

  “Carol!”

  “How are you, Guy?”

  “Carol, where are you? When are you coming home?”

  “I am home, Guy. I’ve found a new home. I just called to see if you were okay.”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” I said. “New home?”

  “Oh Guy, I’m sorry. I love you, but I have to do this.”

  “What about our partnership?”

  “I
want you to have Channing draw up papers,” Carol said. “I’m giving you my half, no strings.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “It’s the best I can do. And there’s something else I want you to do for me, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Where are you, Carol? I mean where are you?”

  “I’ve moved to Jefferson City,” she answered. “Jefferson County. I’ve fallen in love with this place, Guy. Wait till you see it.”

  I let that go by. “What was it you wanted me to do for you?”

  “I want you to put my house on the market,” she said. “Guy, I know how hard this is for you. I love you, Guy, I really do. But you’re married to the publishing business, and I hate the publishing business. I can’t stand what it’s done to you. And Santa Barbara isn’t the sweet little town I once fell in love with.”

  “Whereas Jefferson City—”

  “You’d love it up here,” she said. “Won’t you—”

  “I’m pretty busy.”

  “I’d come home and take care of the sale myself,” she said, “but I can’t get away. I have a job now.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I’m in charge of the Californiana section in a beautiful antiquarian and used bookstore. Best bookstore in Jefferson County. And you know what? Their poetry section is a mess. They really need someone like you to take over.”

  “I’ll call Vance Halliday and have him list the house for you. How can he get in touch with you? You have a phone number?”

  “He can call me at the store. It’s Scarecrow Books, 707-555-4261.”

  “Okay. Just one more question, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes?”

  “As I understand it, you were in Santa Barbara the night of the fire. Why didn’t you give me a call? We might have had dinner or something.”

  “What fire? What are you talking about, Guy?”

  “Are you telling me your car wasn’t parked in the warehouse parking lot at ten-thirty, Saturday night, September ninth?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I honestly have no idea where my car is. It was stolen from my motel the day after I got to Jefferson City. That’s why I’m still here. I was planning to go on up into Oregon, but when I realized I had no wheels I decided to take a look around. And…well, here I am. For good. I miss you, Guy. I do.” I could hear a tear in her voice.

  “Okay.”

  “I wish you’d come see me. Please.”

  “What about all your stuff?”

  “I haven’t worked that out yet. I’ll have to sell the house first, I guess.”

  “I’ll give Vance your number.”

  “Don’t let him sell to a developer. I don’t want them to turn our house into condos.”

  “Okay.”

  “This is very hard for me to say, Guy,” she said.

  “What is?”

  “I’m sorry. And I love you.”

  “Good-bye,” I answered.

  “You’d really love it up here, you know.”

  “Good-bye, Carol.”

  ***

  We had another Santa Ana wind that night. I drove into the mountains, high, high up until I reached La Cumbre, which means “the peak.” I parked at a lookout spot, got out of my car, and gazed out over the city I’d loved so much for nearly twenty years, nearly half my life. It was about eight-thirty, and lights were twinkling below me like a basket of jewels tossed on a bedspread of black velvet. Far out on the horizon the Channel Islands looked like a lazy school of planet-sized whales, backlit by the last azure light of day.

  There, with the hot wind on my back and the air before me dry, sharp, clear, and hot, I knew it was time to take care of business. I pulled out the yellow pad in my mind and composed lists.

  Call Channing Bates

  Call Vance Halliday

  Clean my house

  Clean Carol’s house

  Pack

  Call my office landlord

  Move into Schooner Inn

  Call Kitty

  Call Rosa

  Call Rosa

  Call Rosa. Yes, call Rosa.

  Thinking about Rosa Macdonald made me appreciate how important her job was. Any damn fool, standing up on the La Cumbre peak, with just a gallon of gasoline and a pack of matches from Mel’s Tavern and a hot Santa Ana wind at his back, could say good-bye to all his troubles. Pull a Samson and bring the world down on top of his head, killing thousands in the process.

  I got back in the car, put country music on the radio, and coasted down to the city I loved, to spend my last night in that bungalow in the East Side barrio.

  ***

  “Channing Bates.”

  “Channing, this is Guy Mallon.”

  “Guy, how are you?”

  “I am full of hope. I would like you to dissolve the business partnership I have with Carol Murphy.”

  “Well, I can’t do that, Guy. I can draw up papers, if that’s what you want, but only you and Carol can dissolve the partnership. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Actually, I’m sure I don’t want to do this. But Carol wants out, and I won’t stand in her way.”

  “I see. Well—”

  “Make it simple. Carol wants to give everything to me and walk.”

  “Give everything to you?”

  “I don’t mean to be greedy, and I know how much she has contributed to the success of the business, but—”

  “What kind of everything are we talking about?” Channing asked.

  “My personal book collection,” I answered. “Other than that, everything went up in smoke. My debts exceed my bank account. I’m in the hole.”

  “So by walking away from the partnership, Carol’s effectively sticking you with a lot of bills.”

  “That’s true. And since I don’t have any inventory, there’s no way I’ll be able to pay those bills.”

  “I can’t believe Carol would do this to you,” Channing said. “I know Carol, and—”

  “She hasn’t heard about the fire,” I said. “She probably thinks I’m sitting on a gold mine. I’d like to leave it that way. Let her think she’s doing me a favor.”

  Channing was silent for a thoughtful while. Then he said, “You don’t have to do this. I love you and Carol both. But as your lawyer, it’s my obligation to tell you that you don’t have to dissolve this partnership. You don’t have to accept all the problems.”

  “Yes I do,” I said.

  ***

  “Halliday Realty. May I help you?”

  “Vance, this is Guy Mallon.”

  “Hello, Guy. How’s books?”

  That’s one of the reasons I like Vance Halliday: he likes books. That’s how I know him, in fact.

  “Books suck,” I said.

  “Sorry about that fire,” he told me. “I heard you weren’t insured.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “You want to know the gossip, ask a realtor,” he said. “Actually, Fritz Marburger told me.”

  “Yeah, well. Listen, Carol wants to sell her house, and she wants you to list it. Will you do that?”

  “Really? What are you two going to do?”

  “I have no idea what either one of us is going to do,” I said.

  “Either one?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well. So, will you sell the house for her?”

  “Of course. But what about you? Do you have someplace to—”

  “I’m moving into the Schooner Inn until I can figure out what’s next. As of tonight.”

  “What about your books?” Vance asked. “I guess you’ll be keeping that office, so—”

  “Only till the end of the month. After that I’m going to rent some storage space until I know what’s next.”

  “Let me give you some advice,” Vance said. “Get some insurance on those books.”

  I told Vance how to get in touc
h with Carol and he wished me luck.

  ***

  “Rosa, this is Guy.”

  “Guy. Hello.”

  “I just want you to know that Carol’s okay.”

  “That’s nice,” Rosa said.

  Nice? “I just thought I should tell you so you could stop worrying about her,” I said. “Oh, and by the way, she wasn’t in Santa Barbara at the time of the warehouse fire. Her car was, but she wasn’t. Somebody stole her car, is what happened.”

  “We know about the vehicle,” she said. “At least we know where it is.”

  “You what?”

  “Her car’s impounded. It’s in police custody.”

  “What?”

  “We have the car. You can tell Miss Murphy to give me a call so we can—”

  “How long have you known this?” I asked.

  “About a week,” she answered.

  “And you didn’t tell me? God damn it, Rosa, can’t you see how much I’ve worried about that car? And you couldn’t even tell me—”

  “Guy, I have other things to take care of, too, you know. Now if you’ll just have Miss Murphy contact me—”

  “Where was the car?” I said. “Where did you find it?”

  “It was towed to Love’s Auto Storage after it had been parked for two weeks at the Santa Barbara Marina. Apparently it was abandoned there the morning after the fire that destroyed your warehouse.”

  “And you didn’t put two and two together?”

  Silence.

  “Huh?” I asked.

  “Mister Mallon, I want you to know I know what I’m doing. Just because I don’t tell you everything I’m doing, doesn’t mean I don’t know.”

  “Well, I don’t have to tell you everything I’m doing either, then, Detective Macdonald. Fair enough?”

  “Guy.”

  “What?”

  “Be careful.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  That afternoon I finished wrapping my poetry books individually and packing them into boxes. Then I went to the house I had called home and vacuumed all of Carol’s rugs, swept all of her floors, dusted her furniture, and washed her counters and windows. As the last light was leaving the sky, turning the eucalyptus giants across the street to dancing silhouettes, I went out into the garden behind the house, where I turned on the floodlights and swept up the carpet of wine-red bougainvillea petals that covered the redwood deck. Then I went back inside and packed all my clothes and stuff into two suitcases and a couple of cardboard boxes from the garage. I carried everything I owned out to my car. It was a refreshing discovery: I owned very little stuff, and I was owned by even less.