A Cadgers Curse

by Diane Gilbert Madsen

  THE NEXT THING I knew, Michael Drake was holding me in his arms, calling my name over and over. He removed the gag. I looked at him, puzzled, wondering why he too had died.

  "DD McGil, can you hear me? It's me, Michael. Michael Drake. And this is my father, Michael Senior."

  "Michael, the archangel?" I gazed at a small, wizened man with a shock of white, unruly hair bending over me.

  "So this is the one you told me wouldn't move out," his father said, frowning. "Girlie, you must really love this office." He then proceeded to tell me how his son had noticed the flashing light on the computer screen at the last possible second. "He ordered a final walk-thru on this floor," he added. "Otherwise-poof. You wouldda been gone."

  "Yeah, but I really had to insist," Michael Jr. added. "The Mayor's undies are in a bundle because of the TV cameras running and the time frame. He was ready to walk out, mad as a wet hen that one trip wire connection made us go off line. Especially after all the fireworks went off."

  "Lucky my boy didn't cave in though," Michael's father said and thumped his son's shoulder. "He disconnected the plunger with his master key."

  They helped me up, then Michael lifted me out of the closet. I was too weak to move on my own. I flung my arms around him and dropped my head onto his chest, clinging to a warmth I never thought I'd feel again.

  "You're going to be all right. Do you understand? Tell us what happened. Why were you in the closet? Who was with you?"

  "What happened?" I repeated like a parrot.

  I was tense, waiting for the onset of my eternal torment. Then I had to pee real bad, and that's when I realized I wasn't dead. And I knew I had something very important to tell, but I couldn't remember what.

  "Get those other two out," Michel barked at a swarm of men who pulled out Harry, then Norman.

  "This is a crime scene, DD. Do you understand what I'm saying? As soon as I saw you in that closet on top of two other bodies, I had one of my men call a captain I know. He should be here any second. Come on, I'll carry you outside to the shed where you can warm up and talk to him before they take you to the hospital."

  I told him I didn't need to go to any hospital. "I want Jeff Fere and that bitch Sparky to get what's coming to them," I repeated several times as he took me to the shed.

  Captain Fisher arrived, worried about the mayor and all the commotion. But he patiently took down everything I told him about Jeffrey Fere and HI-Data and Sparky Groh.

  He asked if I knew the other two victims, and I told him who they were. At the mention of a Treasury Agent, Captain Fisher turned a funny color and swallowed hard. I heard him tell one of the cops to get the mayor away from the site and seal off the area. Then he conferred in a huddle with all the other cops.

  "They've killed others, too," I shouted to the captain. He emerged from the huddle, and I related what Sparky did to Jack McSweeney in my apartment.

  Michael Drake listened, then told the captain he wanted to check why none of the cameras had picked up anything that had happened on the feed. He returned, shaking his head and explained that someone had cut the camera wires in all the tower cameras. His father approached and interrupted.

  "Son," I heard them talking at the outer edge of my fog, "The mayor has pushed that fake detonator button so many times by now it's worn out. He wants to get this show on the road right now. We better do it, or we'll be completely finished in this town."

  "We can't just blow it up, even on the mayor's personal okay," Michael said. "Anyway, I think the mayor's being escorted home right now. We're going to have to wait for the cops to give us the go ahead, and it's not going to be any time soon. This is a crime scene now.

  They moved away with Michael's father complaining about how dangerous it was having all the explosives ready to go. I felt bad that their company might lose out on the bonus they'd been promised. But right at this moment, all I could think of was that I had to pee, and it felt so good to be alive.

  Then I heard Auntie. I thought I was hallucinating.

  She was rushing toward me, pushing through a throng of cops and workmen, shooing them aside like children in her way. George Murray was right behind her. I couldn't believe she'd gotten past the Mayor and all the security.

  "DD, what's happened?" Auntie asked, out of breath. "Are you hurt, lass?" She ran her hands gently over my head and arms.

  "We went to your apartment when you didn't show up for the party," Auntie said, "and you know what we found. A... " ..." She made a face, not willing to say "dead body" aloud.

  "I told the cops what happened..." I tried to say, but George interrupted.

  "Your Auntie then was seized with one of her dire feelings about your office closet, and she'd have nothing but to come here and see for herself that things are well." "

  I ken something bad was happening," Auntie said, looking me in the eyes. "I had more than one flash that was warning me clear and loud that you and the precious objects were involved. What's going on DD?"

  Ohmygod, my purse with the Burns artifacts. Where was it? And in what condition were the treasures? I couldn't bear to think.

  I took a deep breath and called Michael. I introduced him to Auntie and George and then asked him to go rescue my purse, still in the closet. As soon as he was out of earshot, I asked if they'd called the cops and reported McSweeney's death.

  "0' course we did," Auntie said. "We were worried about you. There's a general look out for you or whatever they call it."

  "I'm afraid you're a suspect in Jack McSweeney's murder," George explained. "O' course I am as well. Sorry, lass."

  "Auntie, you were absolutely right when you said something bad was going to happen. Something real bad did happen. But everything's fine now." I smiled at them both. "Auntie, your job is to get me to a ladies room at once. And George, please go find Michael and get my purse from him. I'd like you to examine it and tell me if anything inside's been damaged."

  I winked at him, hoping he'd fathom that I wanted him to look in there and find the treasures. I didn't want to spring anything on Auntie and panic her. She was fully capable of making a scene over the artifacts that would make the rape of the Sabine women look tame.

  Two cops escorted us to the john, which Auntie didn't like but tolerated. They had to hold me up between them as my legs were still weak and my motor skills weren't working very well. Auntie did tell me that Cavalier was at Mother's house and not to worry about him.

  "Not to worry," I repeated vacuously over and over, hoping that George would deftly handle the problem of the Burns artifacts because I could not.

  SIXTY

  Two DAYS LATER, THEY released me from the hospital. They were all glad to see me go. Scots do not make good patients. The word "patient" is not in our vocabulary.

  The soft-spoken Indian doctor completed his examination. He had liquid brown eyes that seemed to hold the secrets of the universe. He muttered something, then made some notes. I still wasn't feeling very good, but I didn't want to say anything to prevent him from releasing me.

  Finally he looked up and said, "I am agreeing to sign these release papers today, Miss McGrill, but only upon condition you go home and rest."

  "McGil. It's McGil," I said. His name was Callugulagula, and this was payback for my calling him Dr. Caligula.

  "The concussion you are sustaining," he continued in his clipped Indian accent as he flipped through my chart, "may well continue to give you small side effects, such as headache, blurred vision, ringing in the ears, or slight nausea"

  I'd been feeling all of that, plus more he hadn't mentioned to do with the pain in my neck.

  "And I hope you realize how extremely lucky you are that the slash on your neck was not deeper. It could have injured your vocal chords or severed a major blood vessel," he said in a tone that inferred I'd brought all this on myself. Then he snapped my chart closed and cautioned me not to operate an automobile for another week. His parting instructions as he shut the door were to "take things slow and easy."
>
  Yesterday they told me that Norman had died instantly from the blow to his head. Harry Marley had been luckier. He'd survived Sparky's assault, and his prognosis was excellent. That cold Chicago west wind had been good to him. Hypothermia had saved him from bleeding to death. He'd been transferred to Northwestern University Research Hospital.

  Mother wanted to come pick me up and have me stay with her for a few days, but I refused as gently as I could. I promised to come pick up Cavvy as soon as I got released, but then I wanted to be alone. I needed to go back to my apartment and check things out. They'd long ago removed McSweeney's body, but I had to come to terms with what had happened-not just McSweeney's murder but also Frank's death, and I knew it was going to take a little more time before I could put it all to rest.

  Mother did make me promise to take a cab, but I would have anyway. I was having the vertigo Dr. Caligula had so cheerfully predicted.

  The nurses put me in a wheelchair, and a candy striper escorted me to a waiting cab. She warned me that the temperature was minus two. I climbed as quickly as I could into the back seat, feeling cold and a bit woozy, but very glad to be alive.

  On the way to Mother's, I played the messages that had accumulated on my cell phone. The first was from Phil.

  "I can't believe what happened," he said. "I'm sorry I got you involved with HI-Data. What a mess. Are you okay? I know you're in the hospital, but call me when you can. I have news for you. I went to Jeff Fere's New Year's Eve bash. Everybody was there, and then, wow, all of a sudden an army of law enforcement types stormed in and arrested him. Cuffed him right in his own living room. And that tall girl, Sparky Groh, too. Talk about shock. You should have been there. Well, I mean you should have seen the look on Jeff's wife's face when Sparky threw herself into Jeff's arms. The whole place went up for grabs. Anyway, call me as soon as you can. I want to hear all the details. And, by the way, where's your new office? I need your new address"

  I looked forward to talking to Phil again soon, but not today. And as for sharing the grisly details, I was still trying to remember things. Even after my two-hour meeting yesterday in the hospital with the Feds there were some gaps. Sparky had hit me hard on the head with that revolver, and needless to say, I hated guns more now than ever before. For all they'd done, and especially for Frank, I was going to enjoy the trial of Jeff and Sparky and their public disgrace.

  Then I heard the next voice. "DD, this is Scotty. If you're hearing this message, I love you, and I'm glad you're okay. I hope you're resting. I'm calling from somewhere high above the Atlantic en route to your bedside. I took a week's leave, so expect me momentarily. Oh, and by the way, I talked to Harry in the hospital. He's embarrassed all to hell about what happened and you having to save him. So do me a favor. Don't go visit him. And, oh, would you have any idea what might have happened to one of his gold cuff links? He says they're his lucky charm, and he's really upset one's missing. Now get into bed and wait for me."

  Yes, I knew where Harry Marley's lucky gold cuff link was all right. Somewhere under the pile of debris where my old office once stood.

  When the cab pulled up at Mother's, Tom Joyce and George Murray rushed out to greet me and help me up the stairs. I was surprised at the attention and told them I could manage myself, but they insisted.

  Mother threw her arms around me as did Auntie, and Cavalier wanted to be picked up and cuddled. For once he was glad to see me.

  "I know you don't like any fuss over you, DD. That's why I didn't tell you everyone was here," Mother said, taking my coat and scarf and staring at the bandages Dr. Caligula had placed on my neck and on my head where they'd shaved my hair.

  I looked around for Scotty, but didn't see him.

  "Scotty'll be arriving shortly," Mother said. "He's delayed at Kennedy. They've had nine inches of snow in the last few hours, and all the takeoffs were cancelled. He sounds like such a nice man.

  "Aye, an' important, too, coming all the way from London," Auntie nodded her approval. "Now come sit down, lass. I'll give you a wee glass of your mother's sherry. It'll do wonders for a concussion, an' we must celebrate the safe return of the artifacts."

  I stared at her as she smiled and poured a small sherry for me.

  "I know what all happened, my girl, she said and went to fetch a bottle of Macallan "1876 Replica" Highland Single Malt Scotch Whisky. She announced proudly that a friend in Scotland had given it to her and that she'd smuggled it in past customs. Some Scots traits have a monotonous predictability.

  We enjoyed several toasts-to me the detective niece, to Tom Joyce, to Rabbie Burns and the precious artifacts, to Scotland, and to the Stuarts. I was careful not to take more than a sip for each, and was glad for the interruption when my cell phone rang.

  I answered, thinking it might be Scotty. It wasn't.

  "Hi, DD. Special Agent Greg McIntyre here. Are you out of the hospital yet?"

  "Hi, Greg. I just got out. What's up?"

  "The whole team's dying to hear what happened at HI-Data. We understand you're quite the heroine."

  "Yeah, yeah, that's what they all say, but I sure don't feel like one. I feel more like a pin cushion."

  "No, really, that's the word going around. And on top of thatwhich I hate to admit-you were right all along about Eric Daniels. Thanks to that tip we got from Mr. Anonymous, we recovered most of the Mooney Investment funds. I wanted to let you know that we got ahold of Eric-boy just in time, too. He was about to bail with a ticket for Las Vegas and a fake passport when we cuffed him. Old Mr. Mooney's so happy he's pushing us to identify the tipster so he can personally deliver the $10,000 reward. Well, take it easy, and we'll talk later when you feel better."

  I chuckled as I hit the off button, thinking that's me, DD McGil, Tipster. But I could never collect, because I'd never let anyone know about a certain B & E caper that produced the information for the team to get Mr. Daniels. Oh well, goodbye ten thousand lovely dollars."

  "So," Tom said, eyeing me closely. "I heard that about Eric Daniels and the tipster. Methinks the tipster was DD McGil. And I think Agent McIntyre guessed, too."

  "A girl has to be a Jill of many trades in this world," I replied, staring into space, fighting a damn headache that may have been from either the concussion or the sherry.

  My ears were ringing and I was experiencing another bout of that intermittent nausea Dr. Caligula told me to expect. But the mention of the reward triggered something. I smiled. Suddenly the headache and the nausea disappeared. I remembered the fifty thousand dollars. Sparky said they'd deposited fifty thousand dollars in my bank account hoping to frame me and convince everyone I'd been involved. Real money, she'd said, not counterfeit. "A Bank Error In My Favor," as the Monopoly game cards so nicely put it.

  Maybe the fates weren't so impersonal after all. Maybe HI-Data was going to end up paying me for my work. All I had to do was print out an invoice for services rendered on the trainees in the amount of fifty thousand dollars, mark it paid, and send it to HIData.

  I grinned and relaxed.

  "DD, are you sure you're all right?" Tom asked, his voice fading in and out. "You've got an awful silly grin on your face."

  As I drifted off, I saw George Murray on one knee, proposing to Auntie Elizabeth. I hoped Scotty would get here soon.

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  People do make a difference. Thanks to Grace Morgan, agent and friend, who worked long and hard, and to Molly Weston of Meritorious Mysteries for her early interest and suggestions. Also thanks to Midnight Ink's great staff and especially Senior Editor Connie Hill.

  Thanks to the gods for Enid Perll, whose editing always challenges and improves. And many thanks to Stuart Kaminsky for his contributions and stimulating friendship.

  Thanks to all my readers, including Velma and Fred Roberts and Richard Sumner, and especially to Gordon Drawer for Chicagorelated continunity; to Albert and Shirley Gilbert for extraordinary encouragement and champagne; and to my Mom, Alice Lemke Gil
bert, and brother Wayne Gilbert for their unwavering support.

  Thanks aye to my dear friend and Burns scholar, Frank Campbell, President of the North American Burns Association, for his advice and help. And many thanks to friends in Scotland: David Sibbald, Past President of the Glasgow and District Association of Burns Clubs and Past President of Glasgow Haggis Club, and Peter Westwood, director of the Robert Burns World Federation and editor of the Burns Chronicle, for their ever generous help in Burns research. Special thanks also to Lord Bruce and his family for sharing information on Katherine Bruce.

  The quick wit, enthusiasm, suggestions, and involvement of Thomas J. Joyce contributed greatly to this work, as did his invaluable advice on manuscripts and bibliophilia.

  And ever to Tom Madsen, continuity expert, plot boiler, friend, and husband extraordinaire-let's put time in that bottle and see the pyramids along the Nile for eighty-eight more years.

  If you enjoyed reading Cadger's Curse, stay tuned for Diane Gilbert Madsen's next DD McGil Mystery

  Hunting for Hemingway

  COMING SOON FROM MIDNIGHT INK

  All things truly wicked start from innocence.

  - ERNEST HEMINGWAY

  PROLOGUE

  December 2, 1922 LAUSANNE, Switzerland: The Chateau Ouchy: The American was twenty-three, tall and muscular, just done with the First World War. He'd recently arrived from Paris to cover the Greek-Turk Peace Conference for the Toronto Star newspaper. He was newly married and cabled Feather Cat, his private name for his wife, to come join him in Lausanne.

  December 2, 1922 PARIS: 74 rue de Cardinal Lemoine: The wife was also an American from the Midwest. They lived off her dwindling inheritance in a tiny loft apartment in Paris while the husband worked at becoming a writer. Feather Cat had a bad cold and had not accompanied her husband, whom she affectionately called Poo. Responding to his pleas, she packed and made arrangements to take the train to Switzerland. She loaded all her husband's writings into a separate small valise so that he could work on them, and maybe sell something.