by Ray Merritt
CLAMOUR
OF CROWS
RAY MERRITT
Copyright © 2016 by Ray Merritt
All rights reserved. No part of this publication, or parts thereof, may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotes in a review, without the written permission of the publisher.
This novel is a work of fiction and to construe it as anything else would be an error. Any references to historical events, to the works of prominent writers, to real people, living or dead, or to actual locales are intended only to give the fiction a setting in historical reality. Other names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Merritt, Raymond W., author.
Clamour of crows / Ray Merritt.
Sag Harbor, NY : Permanent Press, [2016]
ISBN 978-1-57962-442-2
eISBN 978-1-57962-472-9
1. Private investigators—New York (State)—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Humorous fiction. 4. Mystery fiction. I. Title.
PS3613.E77657 C58 2016
813'.6—dc23 2016010106
Printed in the United States of America
for cm&kc
MOST MEN DIE FORGOTTEN
HEROES AND VILLAINS LIVE ON
THE BEST THE WORST
AND A FEW WHO WERE BOTH
RWM
I
I awoke as the sun was gaining height. It was resplendent in its pumpkin orange, enjoying its solitary place in the sky.
Moments later, she stirred. I reached down and touched her. I heard a faint moan as she lay on her back and parted her legs. It has been eight years since the first night I brought her to my bed and she has never left.
“Good morning, love. Time to get up!”
Without hesitation, she rolled over and wagged her tail.
Nip, as she came to be called, is my constant companion. We eat, sleep, think, laugh, and mourn together. Her given name is Junipero, her namesake a Franciscan friar who was credited with settling California, at least for civilized (read white) folks.
It was a bit of a family joke.
When I was twelve, I was confirmed and, as is the tradition in the Church, I got to select my confirmation name. It was, perhaps, the first independent decision I would make in my young life. I wanted Junipero since I had the romantic but misperceived view that Father Serra was a bold adventurer who conquered the West—dashing, daring, and dedicated, attributes I wished to emulate.
Unfortunately, Jonathan Hanson Junipero Tucker just didn’t wash with my mother. “Too ethnic” was her retort, in keeping with her insular bias and insecurity.
I later tried to use it with my firstborn, but my wife scotched it, insisting that he be named after his father and his father’s father.
No issue, no discussion.
So when Nip came into our lives, I knew the rooster would not crow that day. I would not be thrice denied.
“Up, up, we’re outta here.”
While I relieved myself, Nip went through her morning scratches and stretches. Once outside, our roles reversed. The mornings were growing cooler and it seemed to be taking longer for each of us to get our joints lubricated.
The seashore was already alive with the din of its inhabitants. The October sky had lost its luster and its exclusivity and was now relegated to a pale blue backdrop for passing clouds.
Life below, however, went on without much notice.
A flock of hapless gulls trolled the water’s edge for edibles as a gulp of cormorants continuously fished. The crows were busily cawing while a solitary heron stood disdainfully by. A crow’s song mingled with the gentle lapping of waves, like a duet, as one sound gave way to the other.
Nip and I were accepted denizens.
“Do you know why seagulls fly over the sea? Because if they only flew over the bay, they would be called bagels!”
Nip perked up. She seemed to enjoy my jokes, at least this one, judging from her energetic tail. Quickly, however, her attention was diverted as she ran off to chase a skein of geese back to their bay haven.
I should note that we are not talking here about trekking in the San Juan Islands or the Barrier Islands of Georgia, but rather a twenty-acre tract of land on the southeast end of Long Island, just a few hours from New York City.
Fortune comes in many wrappings. A few years after I graduated from law school, I assembled an assortment of parcels using a goodly portion of my family inheritance at a point fifteen years ago when real estate in the Hamptons was considered neither a luxury nor a necessity.
Just a place to live.
This parcel did not boast of ocean beaches and dunes but rather a placid bay, a shallow inlet, some wetlands, and an abundance of woods that had probably not suffered human intrusion for a century and a half.
After I left the law firm, it was here, in what I dubbed my “Twenty Acre Wood,” that I set down my roots while keeping a toehold in Manhattan. It is here I lick my wounds, pound the sand, and attempt to banish the demons that assail me.
Nip and I, as is our wont, left the seashore to traverse the back eighteen. As we progressed, the sun that assuaged me earlier became filtered and, as the sounds of the seaside receded, I became pensive, watching a crowd of crows foraging nearby.
“Nip, let me tell you the raven’s tale.” She didn’t seem to pay attention, but I continued anyway. “The world originally was inhabited only by spirits and birds—no dogs yet. One day, a raven, perhaps out of boredom, flew high in the sky carrying a stone in her beak. You know ravens—they’re the ones you like to chase. They’re just big crows.”
Well, almost. A raven’s wings are a deeper color—more purple than black—and when it comes to feathers, they have one more. So you could say the difference is just a matter of a pinion.
Nip was not amused. She cannot abide birds. Labs are birders. It’s in their blood.
“Back to the story. The raven became so tired carrying the stone, she dropped it into the ocean and it then expanded to create a land that humans and dogs could live on.”
Nip was now listening intently. She wagged enthusiastically. The mention of any food does that and I sensed she was still thinking about the bagels.
Costner was onto something. Perhaps dancing with wolves is going too far, but talking to dogs is clearly an acceptable pastime, especially for lawyers. For us, talking is an occupational necessity—an acquired habit we can’t seem to break. Additionally, lawyers really don’t like to be interrupted. So it is no coincidence that this man’s best friend cannot talk. She does, however, listen.
Back to crows. The truth is I’m drawn to them. Crows—and ravens—are complex, mythological creatures, and they deserve our attention. Last night I dreamt about crows and it was again unsettling. For the last three years, I haven’t slept much, and when I do, I always dream. I think that dreams are important—not that I view them as messages from a higher being or psychic premonitions. At the risk of sounding Freudian, I do believe that they can act like photographs—mirrors to the past and windows to the future. On the other hand, perhaps they might well be nothing more than stories we tell ourselves in our sleep when the mind has nothing else to do. Nevertheless, I think it foolish to dismiss dreams.
Especially when they involve crows.
Some view crows as nothing more than menacing magpies. Hitchcock and Poe did a job on them, branding them as annoying and
deceitful. That’s not quite fair. They’re extremely intelligent survivors.
One corvine trait seems undisputed—they never forget.
2
I was only halfway through our morning trek when my other less lovable but equally indispensable companion vibrated. The inbox read: Evan Trombley . . . 7:45 A.M. . . . Bad news.
With one touch, my Pandora’s box slid open to his message—“ben baum died yesterday london. family n firm would like u to attend funeral. pls call.”
Sad news delivered by e-mail most often comes unwrapped and unvarnished.
Ben Baum dead.
Bad news? More aptly, sad news. And, for me, it caused an instant eruption of emotions that were lying dormant just beneath the surface—memories replete with smiles, sadness, nostalgia, anxieties, anger, and regrets.
Dr. Seuss was right. There are indeed troubles of all kinds. Some come from ahead; some come from behind.
Mine were the latter.
“Thanks for calling back, Jonathan.”
I smiled. Evan Trombley is the senior corporate partner at Winston Barr & Trombley, my former firm. He was my mentor and the only person other than my late mother who called me by my given name. To the rest of the world—human and animal—I am simply Tuck.
Evan was my “rabbi.” In large-firm legalese, that is the partner who takes you on as his primary assistant. It had been on Evan’s coattails that I was dragged up the ladder of success. I quickly became his straw boss—chief honcho, team leader, his thane.
He came from a mold that almost assured success: prestigious background, prodigious work ethic, independent wealth. He was in the office before the associates and left only for a client engagement. He was very smart—and great to work for. He was a somewhat respectful listener, a willing delegator, and an aggressive partisan. He was, however, aloof.
I always wondered if he had a dark side. He was at times petulant and even devious. His ambition, however, was transparent. He had a big book of business and as a result was often resented by the worker-bee partners. Apparently he was not keen on sharing the partnership pie. It took his kind of obsessiveness, however, to shepherd a client like Ben Baum and Ozone Industries—an enterprise that had grown into the Firm’s largest client.
Evan never married, had no relatives, close or distant, and no known significant other. His social life seemed satisfied by serving as a decorative walker for New York’s power dowagers, his emotional desires satiated by corporate deals.
If Evan had any fault, it was his singular vision. He cared only about his practice. He had no hobbies or addictions. He abhorred sports; he seemed to indulge in spirits only at client dinners.
He was the quintessential type-A corporate partner and a career cardiac candidate. His immersion in the affairs of Ozone was almost religious. To many—both at the Firm and at Ozone—Evan and Ben were one.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. What happened, Evan?”
Matter-of-factly he responded, “Heart attack here in London. Poor bastard! He was alone in his room at the Lyceum Hotel. We called the house doctor and he went in the room and shortly thereafter advised us that he was dead.”
“How is Kati taking it?” I asked. Evan was dismissive. To him, Kati wasn’t important; mistresses never were.
“His widow, Tremaine, insists on holding the service here in London. She is already into the arrangements. Seems Kati panicked when the doctor told us and promptly fled. Tremaine feared that the mention of Kati’s presence might bring unwelcome attention to the family—tarnish her image. She thought that the best way to keep the top on the teapot is to have the funeral immediately. The house doctor took care of the removal of the body before anyone arrived. Tremaine made the financial arrangements. His daughter, Dorothy, asked specifically if I could have you here. Hope you don’t mind. Dorothy was most insistent.”
He already knew the answer. My professional life—and, as a consequence, my personal life—had become enmeshed in Ozone and the Baum family. Not only was I Evan’s principal assistant on the Ozone account but I had insinuated myself into the confidence of Ben’s daughter, Dorothy, and not only for business benefit.
I felt particularly bad for her. Being Big Ben’s oldest child must have come with heavy baggage.
It is not easy when your father’s entire energy is devoted to his business. I had faced down that demon myself with an uneasy compromise—my wife, Alice, and I parceled out parental duties as best we could. She was very understanding and did a yeoman’s job in covering for me.
Baum and his first wife, Maude, I understand, made no such effort when their children were young.
“I’m at the hotel suite. Funeral’s on Tuesday at Trinity Church in Chelsea. Service is at ten. After the burial, there will be a reception back at the hotel. If you need anything, call my assistant, Claire.”
No mention of paying my way.
Evan rang off. No thanks, no small talk, not even a good-bye. I hadn’t expected more. It had been more than three years since I tendered him my resignation from the Firm. That was when we had our last conversation and it wasn’t that pleasant.
Again, I felt that flare-up of emotions—some bad, some sad, some mad. For me, there had been a long hiatus from positive emotions. Instead, I just hurt. If it weren’t for Nip, I would have been consumed by emptiness. So to try to manage my melancholy, I turned to her. She was—and still is—good at diverting me.
“Nip, bad news! We’re going to the city and you are going to have to stay in our apartment for a few days with Ethel.”
The furrow in her brow indicated her disgust. She tried the eye thing to no avail—that mock look of despair and disbelief at my impending abandonment, made ever more incanine by delivering her into the meaty clutches of smelly Mrs. Grady. Dear Ethel was originally our nanny and housekeeper, and even when her services in that regard were no longer needed I kept her on.
Unfortunately, as much as she was devoted to the kids, she was disdainful of animals, particularly as pets. She was more at home braising them than raising them. As a consequence, Ethel and Nip barely tolerated each other. They had, however, evolved a fragile truce. Ethel for her job; Nip for her food. I made it crystal clear that when Nip goes, she goes.
I could live without Mrs. Grady.
3
The flight to London was as anticipated—discomfort and boredom in the lap of luxury. I had elected to fly in the morning—for a number of reasons. First, I wanted to avoid the ceaseless inane personal queries from the Firm’s leadership contingent that would attend the funeral. That delegation, I would soon discover, consisted of all six members of the Executive Committee, augmented by Charlotte Williams, the Firm’s youngest estate partner. She had handled Ben Baum’s estate planning. Next to Evan and me, she probably knew the Wizard, as Ben was dubbed within the Firm, best. Ben was obsessed with his legacy. He wanted to orchestrate his affairs even after he died. That necessitated long hours with Charlotte.
Flying during the day was a luxury available to the less employed. One arrived in London just in time to eat a late dinner and did not need to subsist on peanuts alone. You could get a good sleep and start the next day alert.
The Firm’s lawyers would be on night flights. They were too important to spend a whole day without iPhone access and would never give up seven hours of billable time. Another and not the least important reason for day flights was personal. I was a chronic “white knuckler.” I preferred to see what was out there and when necessary it was better to cringe among strangers.
“Can I take your breakfast order?” whispered a surprisingly young, succulent-looking, and sweet-sounding flight attendant. Dash the momentary urge—this was not the time or the place.
I, of course, ordered the most extravagant and least health-sensitive item—Cinnamon French Toast with Smoked Summer Sausage. The menu boasted that the toast was enhanced by cinnamon-flavored yogurt and blueberry-infused virgin maple syrup and topped with a candied-apple compote.
You should
expect nothing less for 180,000 “anywhere, anytime frequent flyer miles,” which for the uninitiated means doubling the number of miles required if you don’t want to fly from New York to Dallas with a four-hour layover to pick up your one-stop flight to Heathrow. That was underscored when my breakfast arrived in a form that suggested that our pilot, Mike, as he was introduced, had brought it on board in his back pocket.
Pushing the panini-style pancake aside, I satiated my appetite with the contents of the little plastic containers of Land O’Lakes butter and Knott’s Berry Farm red raspberry preserves. At least I knew I could trust them. They helped me pace myself until my universal favorite—the mixed nuts medley—arrived.
My mind wandered. One of the pastimes I had embraced in the past three years to take the edge off loneliness was venery, or as it is more properly called, the “venereal game.” In the fifteenth century, a time less hectic, English gentlemen—not my ancestors—spent much of their leisure coining fanciful or descriptive terms for groups of animals that inhabited their land: a gaggle of geese; a herd of horses; a waddle of ducks. Published lists of such terms had the status of social primers and had to be memorized and adhered to by members of the upper class. They got much more imaginative as time went on. An army of ants; a bale of turtles; a brace of bucks; a skulk of foxes.
I learned the collective noun for every creature that called Twenty Acres home.
Lately I had moved away from collective animal nouns, having exhausted the search for those I might come in contact with, and decided to create a compendium of collectives for the human species. There were already many well known—a coven of witches, a bevy of girls, a gang of thieves, a jam of tarts. And others less known—a blush of boys, a giggle of beauties. But I wanted to coin some myself, only to find that others had beaten me. A bore of classmates, a trial of associates—perhaps tribulation would be better—a ponder of philosophers. So I turned my attention to the medical field—a brace of orthopedists; a joint of osteopaths; a rash of dermatologists; a stream of urologists; a vise of gynecologists. Then I turned back on my own confreres. An augmentation of attorneys; a balance of accountants; a fraud of auditors: a collection of clients.