by Harper Lin
“Yes, I have,” I replied, pulling out a copy of Cargo Blasters #3: Mars Marathon Manglers from my purse. It was the latest young adult series we were reading together. It was about a bunch of teenaged space truckers fighting aliens and interstellar pirates. It had all the elements a nearly fourteen-year-old boy would want—large machines, laser battles, zero gravity skateboarding, and just the barest hint of flirtation between the main male and female characters.
To be honest, I found it formulaic and predictable, but then I’d been reading for a good five decades longer than he had. Besides, I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to bond with my grandson. He loved reading, although he was finicky about what he read, and he didn’t have another adult showing interest. My son wasn’t much of a reader, and my daughter-in-law mostly read advanced physics journals.
“I’ll give you number 4, Passage to Pluto. Don’t you think it’s unfair that Pluto is only a dwarf planet?”
“I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Although I guess if you kept it a planet you’d have to make Eris a planet too. Maybe even Haumea and Makemake. I mean, once you start naming planets, where do you make the cutoff point?”
“I really have no idea. I also have no idea why you listen to music about people killing each other in the ghetto.”
Martin rolled his eyes. “It’s called the hood.”
“It’s called the place people should try to get out of, not glorify.”
Martin struck a pose that was supposed to look gangsta. “It’s cool.”
I almost said that he wouldn’t last two minutes in one of those neighborhoods, but decided to skip it. He was happy to see me. That was the main thing.
He rummaged through the heaps of stuff on his floor as the carnage in the bad side of town continued on the airwaves. From beneath a cairn of old socks, discarded athletic gear, and various unidentifiables, he pulled out Cargo Blasters #4: Passage to Pluto. The shiny bright cover showed three teens, two boys and a girl, driving spaceships that looked an awful lot like eighteen-wheelers with rockets attached. Pluto hung in the background, along with several menacing UFOs that I knew from previous installments were the ships of the G.R.U.B.S., which stood for Grotesque Repulsive Unsanitary Bug-Eyed Species. The aliens were the main bad guys of the series. The artwork was marred on one corner with a ketchup stain. At least I think it was ketchup.
“Thank you,” I said, holding it with two fingers as I gingerly placed it in my purse. “I’ll get right on it.”
“So, have you bought my birthday present yet?” Martin asked, kicking a pile of Lego pieces.
“You really need to learn the art of subtlety.”
“What’s that?”
“Never mind.”
“So, what did you get me?”
“Something cool and modern.”
“Something street?”
“I can’t afford an entire street, not on my pension.”
That earned me a teenaged eye roll. It was a bad joke, so I suppose I deserved it.
“The birthday party is on Friday at seven.”
“I remember your birthday, Martin.”
“That’s the day after tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“We’re having it at the indoor skate park.”
“I know, I know.”
“We’ll be skating before then, but you don’t have to come for that.”
“Why not? They have beginner’s classes. Maybe I should try.”
That earned me another eye roll.
“Let’s go get some ice cream,” he said, clambering over the wreckage that was his living space. “I think Mom and Dad left some in the freezer.”
I smiled and followed him. Hopefully I’d have this mystery solved in the next couple of days so I could enjoy celebrating Martin turning fourteen with a clear mind and a sense of accomplishment.
That night, with a cup of tea by my side and my tortoiseshell kitten, Dandelion, curled up on my feet, I checked the Internet for everything I could find on the late, great Sir Edmund Montalbion.
I found quite a lot.
First off, I discovered that the “sir” was an actual title from England. He was English, although he had lived much of his life in the United States, and he had earned his knighthood for “services to the realm.” The services turned out to be acting as a go-between to land several lucrative mining deals for British businesses in Africa and Asia. These were all gemstone mines, diamonds mostly. Thanks to him, the English had taken a bite of the diamond industry, something that had been dominated by the Belgians for many decades.
I thought they only gave out knighthoods for slaying dragons or saving damsels in distress. I didn’t know you could get knighted for making private corporations oodles of cash, but what did I know about knights?
These deals had no doubt made him oodles of cash, too, although reading between the lines of his life story, that never seemed to be his primary motivation. He never created his own business, although he certainly had the capital and knowledge to do so, and he never stayed as a consultant with any one company for long. Much of his time was spent at gem shows and auctions in every important capital in the world. He was renowned for his personal collection of rare gems, many of which had stories attached to them.
For example, a couple of years ago he had spent $3.2 million at an auction at Christie’s to buy an emerald-and-ruby diadem that had been owned by the wife of one of India’s richest maharajas in the nineteenth century. This diadem had been the target of an ingenious plan by some of the maharaja’s servants, who had decided to steal it. Knowing that they would be suspected if it went missing, and not wanting to live their lives on the run, they hired a master jeweler to make an exact replica with crystal stones instead of real ones.
The plan would have worked, too, except the jeweler did his job too well. What he didn’t know was that the maharani (that’s a female maharaja, something I didn’t know until I read this story) had dropped the diadem and snapped one of the delicate gold threads. Because of this, the frayed end always jabbed her in the scalp when she put it on. But as the old saying goes, it is better to look good than to feel good, and she would wear the prickly diadem on all state occasions. She was too afraid of her husband, who had quite a temper, to tell him that she had dropped it.
The next time she put it on, however, she noticed there was no snapped gold thread. She immediately guessed the truth and told her husband, who proceeded to show his renowned temper to the servants in quite a bloody manner. Several hot irons and a bath of boiling water later, he wrung a confession from the few servants still remaining alive and learned where the real diadem was hidden.
Quite the history, and our murder victim lapped it up, so much so that he even bought the fake diadem for $500,000, even though the value of its materials was barely worth a tenth of that.
Sir Edmund Montalbion was a collector through and through. He was reputed to have a sample of every gemstone known to man, and even every gemstone known to woman, which is a considerably greater number.
His most recent acquisition was one of his rarest, and most expensive. It was the Volcano Stone of Panama, an immense fire opal. While fire opals are beautiful red gemstones, they tend not to be as expensive as, say, diamonds, but this one was incredibly pure and was the largest cut fire opal in the world, weighing in at twelve thousand carats. It was also unusual in that it was the only fire opal ever to be found in Panama. Fire opals are rare in Guatemala and Honduras, and not found any further south until you get to Brazil. This unusual feature added to its value. He bought it on a private purchase so the details were sketchy, but the estimated market value was well over $1 million.
So the obvious motive for murdering Sir Edmund Montalbion was to rob him, but what was the motive for dumping him in the highly secure building of a big-box store?
So far, I couldn’t find one. I did find several specialist Internet forums and collectors’ newsletters where he spoke out against SerMa
rt, saying they were a “travesty on the gemstone trade” and “the jewelry equivalent to a fast-food hamburger.”
Perhaps putting his body in SerMart was some sort of act of humiliation? Seemed a bit of a stretch, considering the danger involved. And it wasn’t like he was the only person complaining about Serengeti.com. Lots of people hated them for edging out small retailers and even midsized chains. There had even been antitrust lawsuits, complaining that the corporate giant was acting as a monopoly. Those had all been ruled in Serengeti.com’s favor, however. It wasn’t a monopoly; it was just huge and getting huger.
I finished my tea and put my computer to sleep. I had gotten as far as I could with online research. The next step was to start making inquiries on the ground, especially within the business community.
Luckily, I had a date with a member of the business community the very next morning.
Six
Octavian was well-dressed as usual. He had changed from his bright summer suits to a dark blue for the autumn season, his tie on just right and his shirt freshly pressed. An important businessman in the city until his retirement, he had not let his wardrobe get any more casual.
The formality of his dress was at odds with his character, which was warm and open. He never had a cross word for anybody unless they deserved it, like if they were trying to kill the both of us. He was one of the few civilians who knew I had worked for the CIA. I hadn’t intended on telling him, but it sort of came up during the whole “the Mob is trying to kill us” phase of our relationship. He got lots of brownie points for sticking around after that.
We sat at the Tic Toc Café, one of Cheerville’s more popular, and noisy, eateries. We came for the crepes, which were the best I’ve ever tasted. They were so good, in fact, that we were willing to endure the café’s vast collection of clocks. Every wall was covered in them, and every corner had a grandfather clock standing in it. Even our table was a big, round clock on its back, the hands ticking away time half obscured beneath our plates and coffee cups. I took it all as symbolic. Two lovebirds on the wrong side of seventy enjoying each other’s company while the cold hand of time ticked relentlessly toward the moment of their mutual doom.
Sorry, that was a bit glum. Murders in retail outlets tend to affect my emotions in adverse ways.
So, we sat and talked amid the ticking and the tocking, trying to ignore the passage of time. Ignoring the passage of time had become much easier since Octavian had come into my life.
And yet despite the wonderful company, my mind kept drifting to the sight of that poor man lying in my shopping cart with a knife through his head.
Octavian put down his fork. “You seem distracted.”
I blinked and looked at him. I had the vague sense that he had said something before this, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember what.
“Oh, it’s just getting everything organized for Martin’s birthday. I got him a gift, but you know how kids are. So picky…”
My boyfriend cocked his head and studied me for a moment. “No, it’s more than that.”
“Really, it’s nothing you need to worry about.”
He picked up his fork and began to eat again, lost in thought. There was a silence at the table that I couldn’t quite break. Suddenly, Octavian sat bolt upright.
“Aha!” he shouted, pointing his fork at me with such force that a portion of crepe flew off the end of it and landed on my plate.
“Yes, I’d love some crepe. Thank you.”
Octavian blushed. “Oh, sorry. But I’ve figured out what it is.” He looked around at the other tables then leaned forward and in a conspiratorial whisper said, “It’s another case, isn’t it?”
“Really, Octavian, I—”
He waggled his fork at me. “Come on, now. You can’t hide this from me. I’ve seen you on three cases before this one, and I can tell when you’re on the hunt.”
Yes, he actually used the term “on the hunt,” as if I was some sort of bounty hunter. I got offered that job once, and while the pay was tempting, I preferred the travel that the CIA offered me. I mean, who doesn’t want to do forced marches through the Salvadoran jungle?
I sighed and then told him the whole story. He would have wheedled it out of me eventually.
“SerMart,” he said once I finished. “There’s a coincidence. Albert just got a job there.”
“Who?”
“You know, Albert. The stoner waiter who caught you with a dead body in the Cheerville Country Club men’s room.”
“Do keep your voice down. I like this café and want to be able to come back to it. Why would Albert be working at SerMart? He seemed to like his job at the country club.”
Mostly because it gave him plenty of opportunity to smoke pot and race golf carts around the grounds with his fellow underachievers.
“Oh, he got fired. Drugs.”
“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“No, he wasn’t taking drugs. He’s stopped now. He caught a businessman snorting cocaine in the men’s room, and the guy reported on him.”
“Why would the businessman report him? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
“Well, Albert’s not the reporting kind. This businessman, though, has a lot of influence. He was worried that Albert would try to blackmail him and so made up a story about Albert sneezing into his gin and tonic.”
I shook my head. “The more I learn about this town, the more I want my old job back.”
At least drug kingpins and terrorists were honest about who they were.
“It’s almost as ugly as the city at times,” Octavian said, nodding sadly. “So after Albert lost his job, I helped him get one at SerMart.”
“That doesn’t seem like his sort of place.”
“Why not? He’s a modern kid, and they’re so innovative and cutting-edge.”
“Ugh.” I put my head in my hands.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Do go on.”
“So he’s been there for a week now. He replaced someone who got fired. Imagine that? The store has only been open a couple of weeks, and they have already let somebody go.”
“You can’t get good help these days. I’m still surprised Albert took that job. They’re pretty heavy on the rules, and I’m sure they do drug tests.”
“Oh, he’s a changed kid. Our little adventure with the murder in the country club really woke him up. He doesn’t smoke dope anymore, and he’s taking business classes part-time at Cheerville Community College.”
“How do you know so much about what he’s doing?”
“I’ve been helping him get on his feet. He’s still a bit disorganized,” Octavian said with a chuckle.
“Well, that’s nice of you, but why take such an interest in some millennial who can’t string together a coherent sentence half the time?”
Octavian grew serious. “Because I hate to see wasted potential. Remember how he helped us in that case? I saw a bright mind under all that marijuana-induced fog, and a sense of honor too. All he needed was a good kick in the pants. He obviously wasn’t getting it from his own parents.”
I reached over and put my hand on his.
“You’re a good man, Octavian.”
My words got drowned out as all the clocks in the café suddenly rang eleven. The café reverberated with a cacophony of bonging, clonging, ringing, buzzing, chiming, and trumpeting. Yes, trumpeting. A clock in the shape of a castle rang out the hours by having the drawbridge pop open to reveal three little trumpeters in medieval livery, who proceeded to trumpet eleven times with their tiny, tinny instruments.
We didn’t even try to talk. We had learned our lesson from previous visits. Only a megaphone could cut through this din, and I didn’t have a megaphone in my purse. A set of lockpicks, yes. Pepper spray, of course. Pistol, on special occasions. But no megaphone.
The bonging, clonging, ringing, buzzing, chiming, and trumpeting finally died down. The drawbridge snapped shut, hopefully sending t
hose annoying little trumpeters straight to the dungeon.
We waited. After about twenty seconds, Octavian pointed across the room at a cuckoo clock.
He was right on the money. The moment he pointed at it, a little yellow bird popped out of the clock and cuckooed the time.
“They still haven’t fixed that thing,” he grumbled.
“Can you give me Albert’s number?” I asked. “I’d like to speak with him.”
Octavian checked his watch, a refined antique Rolex from 1936, and said, “We’re in luck. We have just enough time to finished these wonderful crepes and drive over to the community college. He’ll be getting out of his Economics 101 class pretty soon.”
We took Octavian’s car, which is much classier than mine, and enjoyed a pleasant drive through town—past the spot where I saw someone get run over by “accident,” past the village green where someone tried to kill a movie star with a barrage of fireworks, past a strip mall at the edge of town where gangsters had set up an illegal casino and tried to kill me when I exposed it. Oh yes, a very pleasant drive through a tranquil, prosperous community. The kind of place where successful people move to raise their families in peace and security.
I had never been on the campus of Cheerville Community College. It looked like a pretty typical small-town college with several low brick buildings, a leafy quad where students sat on the grass studying or flirting, and young people strolling along paths or whizzing by on their bicycles.
Albert was waiting for us in front of one of the buildings, Octavian having called with the promise of a free lunch. No college student will pass up a free lunch. When Albert spotted us, he gave a friendly wave.
“Dude! How’s it hanging?”
Octavian checked his tie. “Fine, I think.”
Albert chuckled, shaking his head and turning to me. “He’s hopeless. So, how’s life with you? Finding any more dead bodies in the men’s room?”
“No, just one in my shopping cart.”
He laughed then looked at me, and the laughter slowly died away. “Oh. You mean it.”