Confidence Tricks
By Hamilton Waymire
Copyright 2011 by Hamilton Waymire
Cover Copyright 2011 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
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Confidence Tricks
By Hamilton Waymire
The rap on my office door was so soft I first mistook it for the summer breeze tugging at the blinds. After the third timid knock I realized someone might desire the services of Benson Keirstad Investigations.
“Door’s open,” I called.
When nobody entered, I figured it was either a prank or an exceedingly shy visitor. I sighed and went to open the door myself. A short, plain, middle-aged woman, wearing a simple black dress that failed to conceal her considerable girth, stood before me and bit her lip.
I bade her good morning and suggested she enter the office. The woman gave me a brief nod and a grimace that conveyed a mixture of gratitude and anxiety, and trod past me into the room.
“I’m Fran Drummond,” the visitor said after I’d introduced myself.
I waited a moment, expecting to hear about the reason for her call. When the silence threatened to turn from expectant to awkward, I said, “Ms. Drummond—”
“Mrs.”
“What?”
“It’s Mrs. Drummond.”
Okay. “Well, Mrs. Drummond, what brings you here?”
She folded her hands in her lap and sat up straight, as if teacher had called upon her to recite a poem. “I understand you can…find out about people.” She looked at me as if it were my turn to speak.
“Depends on what you mean by ‘find out,’ but in principle, yes, that’s what I do.”
“I’d like you to find out about a woman named Cybil.”
I wrote that down. “Anything else you can tell me about this person? Last name, social security, address?”
Mrs. Drummond shook her head. “No, that’s what I need you for. But you can find her at the Moonstone Café in Downtown Disney around eleven a.m. on Thursdays.”
I made a note of that, too. “What does Cybil look like?”
Mrs. Drummond wrinkled her brow. “She’s between you and me in height. Blonde hair, worn long. Very shapely. Late twenties, I think.” She pressed her lips together. “Her style of dress is rather, um, casual.”
I dropped my pencil on the yellow pad and leaned back in my swivel chair. “What exactly would you like me to do, then?”
Mrs. Drummond turned her head to look out the window. She wrung her hands for a minute, then she said, “Let me tell you a story, Mr. Keirstad. When I’m done, maybe you’ll tell me what you can do for me, all right?”
“Please go ahead,” I said. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Smoke all you like. My late husband was a smoker. It doesn’t bother me at all.”
She waited until I’d lit my cigarette. At length she placed her hands on my desk, one on top of the other, and began.
“I was eighteen years old, a college freshman. I went to Heath Cliff.” She lifted her gaze from the ground. “That’s in Iowa.”
“I’ve heard of Heath Cliff,” I said. “It’s a Catholic school, right?”
“Very Catholic. Like my parents and the entire family.” Her gaze wandered back to the window, and her eyes acquired a melancholy look.
“I met a young man there. I thought he was the love of my life. Well, I was mistaken. Suddenly, there I was, pregnant, disgraced, and the child’s father refusing to marry me.”
Couldn’t have happened all that suddenly, I thought.
“Abortion was out of the question, and so was single motherhood. My parents shipped me off to an aunt in Maine before I started to show. I gave birth to a little girl.”
Mrs. Drummond swallowed and took a moment before she continued. “It was arranged that my daughter should be passed off as another woman’s child. She was taken from me right after birth, and I never saw her again.”
“Are there any official records? A birth certificate with your name on it? Adoption papers?”
Mrs. Drummond shook her head. “I don’t think so. As I said, it was all hushed up. The only thing I know is the name her new family gave my child. The priest who helped arrange the deal told me.”
“Let me guess.”
She nodded. “Cybil, yes.”
“Not a run-of-the-mill name, I’ll grant you that, but still—it could easily be a coincidence.”
“But you should see her! The resemblance is most uncanny. She looks just like a female version of Tony.”
“That’s Cybil’s father, I presume?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Drummond said, but it came out as a croak. “I remember him well to this day, although I never saw him again after…what happened. Cybil is just like him—the face, the hands, the movements.”
I waited a minute, but she seemed to be done with her story.
“Where do I come in, Mrs. Drummond?” I tried not to sound impatient.
“Perhaps you could find out some things about this Cybil. Date of birth and such. And whether she’s a reputable person. You know, if her age fits, I’d like to approach her, talk with her, maybe ask her to have her DNA tested—but not without some reassurance about her background.”
“Seems prudent to me, Mrs. Drummond,” I said.
I looked over my notes. “Just how do you know she’ll be at this particular Moonstone at eleven on Thursday?”
Mrs. Drummond smiled for the first time. “I’m afraid I played detective myself for a little bit there. You see, I was visiting Disneyland with my little nephew, Steven. That’s my sister Edith’s boy. I moved in with Edith after Earl died last year. Anyway, we were strolling through Downtown Disney, and there she was, coming out of the coffee store. I was thunderstruck. I wanted to follow her right then, but with Steven in tow, that was hardly an option.”
She took a deep breath. “So then I basically set up camp at the Moonstone, hoping to see her again. Lo and behold, a week later—a Thursday—she shows up again, a little before eleven. My ears rang when she told the cashier her name. You know, for the order? The Thursday after, she was there again.”
“You’ve never tried to follow her, find out where she lives?”
“Oh, try I did,” Mrs. Drummond said, looking sheepish. “But my detective abilities don’t extend that far. I’m not a fast walker.” She sighed and touched her calf as if to illustrate. “Edema.”
* * *
I had hardly opened the apartment door when I heard Cathy call out my name.
“Benson!”
She flew toward me and wrapped her arms around my neck. I lifted her up from t
he floor. She was light as a helium balloon, but a lot shapelier.
Cathy held me very tight. I could feel her breasts pushing against my chest. There was something obsessive about the passionate display of affection.
“How was your day,” I wanted to say, but I didn’t get that far, because she closed my mouth with her lips. As we kissed, I noticed that her cheeks were damp.
I had to expend some effort to pry her off me. She met my gaze, her chin lifted in an attempt to appear brave and fierce. But the film over her eyes told a different story.
“What happened, honey?” I asked, holding both her hands. “Not your folks again, is it?”
She nodded. “I just hung up five minutes ago.” Her eyes welled up, and she looked aside.
Cathy was nineteen and a junior in college. That made me twice her age. An older man, with a disreputable job, wasn’t according to the liking of her parents, both Newport Beach doctors. Since Cathy had moved in with me three weeks ago, they’d been terrorizing her on an almost daily basis.
I took her in my arms and stroked her back. Most of the time I figured if two adults loved each other and wanted to live together, it was nobody else’s business. But every once in a while, I had second thoughts and wondered whether Cathy was really mature enough to make these kinds of decisions.
“You know, honey, if you want to reconsider the whole living together plan, I totally understand,” I said, but without much conviction. I had to admit it felt wonderful to have somebody to come home to.
Cathy pushed me away and stomped her feet. “But I want to live with you. It’s just so frustrating that they don’t understand.”
She yanked a tissue from the Kleenex box on the sideboard and blew her nose. “I’m sorry, Benson. I didn’t mean to make a scene or anything. I was just so happy to see you.”
We talked a lot, had some dinner, walked around the block, and made love. Lying in bed, sweating profusely, watching the ceiling fan whir at maximum speed, I lit a cigarette and said, “Wanna hear about my day?”
Cathy propped herself up on an elbow and kissed me. “Sure.”
I told her about Mrs. Drummond and Cybil.
Cathy took a long drag from my cigarette. Letting the smoke waft out of her nose and mouth, she said, “And you took the case, right?”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re a sucker for melodrama,” she replied and stuck the cigarette back between my lips.
* * *
Downtown Disney is an outdoor retail and dining mall adjacent to the theme park. Despite the mid-July heat, the place bustled with tourists, many of them in business suits and wearing name tags. I figured there was a conference on at the Anaheim Convention Center, which was practically around the corner.
At ten-forty-five, I entered the Moonstone, got myself a large coffee and an LA Times and took up my post at a corner table. I didn’t have to wait long. Before my coffee was finished, a tall blonde in denim hot pants and a white tank top entered the store. Her pink bra glowed through the flimsy fabric of the shirt. Not exactly conservative dress, but in Orange County, nothing to write home about, either.
She was accompanied by one of those burnt-out surfer dudes. The guy was about forty-five and wore his dirty-yellow hair slicked back. He gave the woman a peck on the cheek, turned on his heel, and left the store.
Most of the woman’s face was hidden under humongous sunglasses. As she approached the counter, she pushed them up into her hair. Prominent cheekbones, the nose a little large for the face, but she was definitely pretty, if slightly cheap. Age tallied, too.
“Can I get a name for that order?”
“Cybil,” she told the cashier.
Bingo.
I weighed my options while Cybil stirred sweetener into her nonfat latte. Plan A consisted of chatting her up and asking for her phone number. The risk was that she might blow me off, especially if Surfer Dude was more than a casual acquaintance, and then I would’ve lost the anonymity I needed if I was to follow her. I adopted plan B: wait and see.
Cybil chose a table at the far end of the room. She folded her smooth, golden-tanned legs and extracted a tattered paperback from her pink handbag. With some squinting, I could discern a bare-chested man on the cover.
Cybil seemed to find her romance novel more engrossing than I did the LA Times. After half an hour, I was bored stiff, no matter that my mark was easy on the eyes. Just as I was about to revert to plan A, I heard Cybil’s cell phone ring to the tune of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”
She answered the call but didn’t say a word. After perhaps a minute, she shut the phone, stowed it and the book in her bag, and marched toward the exit. I could smell her perfume when she passed my table; she wore a lot of it, and the scent was too heavy for the season.
I left my paper on the table and followed Cybil. She made a beeline to Catalan, a Mexican restaurant known for its guacamole, not far from the coffeehouse. The outside sitting area was crowded, but a number of tables were available in the air-conditioned barroom.
At the center of the room sat a stout middle-aged businessman wearing one of those conference name tags. He was eating fajitas and sweating, despite the A/C. Cybil gave him a brief nod and a smile and sat at a neighboring table. I chose a seat at the bar close to the wall that allowed me to watch Cybil while staying largely out of sight.
I ordered a beer and some chips from the barkeep. A pimply, overweight chick in an apron brought Cybil a menu and took her drink order.
“What’s that you’re having?” Cybil asked the business suit when the server had left. “Sure looks good.”
The guy almost choked on his fajita. He blushed, dabbed his forehead with a napkin, and stammered an incoherent reply. Cybil beamed a big fake smile at him.
A short while later, she started to rummage through her handbag, growing more and more frantic, to the point where she emptied the entire contents on her table.
“Anything the matter?” the suit asked, concerned.
“This is really embarrassing,” said Cybil, just as the server returned with her Margarita. “I think I left my purse at home. I’ve no cash, no checks, no credit cards, nothing.”
Huh. I’d just seen her use a credit card at the Moonstone Café.
The server put the cocktail back on her tray and snatched the menu from Cybil’s table. I just knew the girl was rolling her eyes, even though I couldn’t see her face.
“I’m really sorry,” Cybil said to her. “I don’t know how I could forget my purse. I hope it wasn’t stolen.” She looked at the businessman, all helpless little girl. “And I was so looking forward to the chicken fajitas.”
“Hold it.” The conventioneer’s voice boomed through the room. “The lady is my guest.” He tapped Cybil’s tabletop with his index finger, showing the server where to put the menu and drink.
After some see-saw—I can’t accept that—Oh but I insist, etc.—Cybil eventually took her cocktail, ordered the chicken fajitas, and joined her benefactor at his table.
Smooth. I had to give her that. I thought I had a pretty good idea of what was going on. Surfer Dude would probably be waiting outside.
* * *
Cybil’s new friend had no clue that Surfer Dude was following them to the hotel. Neither did Surfer Dude notice his own tail.
The Augustus Hotel was friendly territory. My friend and one-time love interest Sally Coleman was their chief of security. I called her on a courtesy phone at the reception and asked her to join me in the lobby. While still on the phone, I saw Cybil and her prey ride the elevator up. I let them go. All I needed to do was keep tabs on Surfer Dude.
He was still sitting in one of the armchairs and reading the O.C. Register when I noticed Sally enter the lobby from a door marked Staff Only. She’d gained some weight since the birth of her second child, but it only added to her feminine charisma. I always thought of her type as British—auburn hair and freckles all over the place. She gave me a peck on the cheek and a hug. I use
d the embrace to whisper the barest outlines of the situation in her ear.
Sally and I rode up with Surfer Dude ten minutes later, pretending to be a bickering married couple. He could barely conceal his amusement as we exchanged insults and abuses. Surfer Dude got off on the seventh floor, and so did we; but instead of turning left like him, we made a right turn and walked down the long corridor. Our mock argument afforded us many opportunities to stop and turn our heads, so that we had no trouble seeing which door Surfer Dude pushed open.
We gave them a minute before making our move.
Sally swiped her master key through the electronic lock to room number 7112. When the green light appeared, I pushed the door open and we marched inside.
“Hotel security,” Sally declared and held her ID up in the air. Surfer Dude had been shooting a photo when we entered. His jaw dropped, and so did the hand that held the camera. The suit wasn’t wearing one now; in fact he was struggling to hide his private parts with a blanket. Cybil jumped out of bed, her naked breasts wiggling back and forth.
I snatched the camera from the nonplussed Surfer Dude.
“Let’s see some ID, folks,” said Sally.
* * *
“What was that woman’s name again?”
Cathy’s voice had an edge to it that made the hairs on my neck stand up.
“Sally Coleman,” I said, trying to sound casual. “But that’s completely irrelevant. The important part is—”
“I don’t think it’s irrelevant that you’re meeting up with your old flames.”
I’d mentioned Sally once, during one of those long nights that occur early in every relationship where you talk and talk and talk and kid yourself into thinking it’s a good idea to share everything about yourself. I hadn’t expected that Cathy would even remember the name. Which only goes to show how much I know about women.
“You’re being unfair. I’m not responsible for this guy staying at the Augustus.” It took some effort to try and keep the strain out of my voice. I didn’t succeed either, at that.
“Oh, now I am being unfair?”
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