EQMM, August 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  * * * *

  David Quinn was hostile, but there was something honest about him. Terence Bishop, by contrast, was slippery by nature; Hennessey couldn't get hold of him. Getting hold of Terence Bishop's personality was like trying to nail jelly to a wall. He left his wife to take the brunt of the bad news and tell the police the name of their dentist. He was small, weasel-like. And what was that? No ... a smirk at his wife's distress? No, no, no, surely, surely not...

  Hennessey and Yellich returned to Micklegate Bar Police Station. In Hennessey's pigeonhole was a copy of Louise D'Acre's postmortem report on the four bodies found at the Old Rectory:

  * * * *

  Body one—upstairs: Died of massive head injuries consistent with being struck from behind with a heavy, flat object. Death would have been instantaneous.

  Body two—upstairs—ditto—

  Body three—found on the stairs: Also died of head injuries; less with knife in hand severe than bodies one and two, but would have been fatal. Also has a broken arm (defence injury?).

  Body four—found in the garden: No discernible cause of death on skeleton. Tissue too decomposed to retain indication of wounds such as stabbing. But blood on the knife is that of body four.

  * * * *

  Hennessey put the report down. So that was it. Quinn senior was probably right. The dental records would show the body in the garden to be that of Bobby Bishop. So he jumped them, got two, the third managed to knife him before being struck a lesser blow to the head. Bobby Bishop staggered downstairs, dying; the third Quinn staggering after him, also dying. Bobby Bishop staggered into the garden in a daze, not knowing where he was going, and found himself behind the garden shed, where he expired. And that was that. All contained, no fifth or sixth person, no multiple murderer to seek and apprehend, here victim and villain were one.

  That night, after feeding and exercising Oscar, Hennessey packed an overnight bag and drove to Skelton, to a half-timbered black and white mock-Tudor house. He walked up the gravel driveway and tapped on the door. When it was opened he said to the slender woman who stood on the threshold, “Sorry I'm late."

  "It's all right.” Louise D'Acre smiled. “The children have quietened. We can go straight up."

  At the same time that George Hennessey stepped over the threshold of Louise D'Acre's house, David Quinn walked out of a house. He walked to the street and sat on a low wall, bloodstained knife in hand. He was surrounded by a small, silent crowd of onlookers. He sat there waiting for the police to arrive because he had just stabbed Terence Bishop through the heart. That was the way of it on the Oakleaf estate.

  (c)2007 by Peter Turnbull

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  MY FUNNY VALENTINE by Frank Wydra

  Since Frank Wydra's EQMM debut in the March/April 2007 issue he has sold a story to AHMM and written an article for Firsts, The Book Collector's Magazine, on collecting the work of fellow Michigan author Loren D. Estleman. He returns to EQMM with a new P.I., Gabe Sparks, though on this case, Gabe isn't working for money.

  My opinion, Nick would have preferred “St. James Infirmary” to the “Amazing Grace” oozed by the quartet. But given his vantage point from inside the closed coffin, he was no longer doing the choosing. I, on the other hand, rather liked the syrupy tune, sort of spiritual, the way it should be, given the occasion.

  Me, I'm Gabe Sparks. Nick considered me his best friend, and I guess we did go back almost to the beginning of time. So, if anyone was going to tell them to jazz it up, it should have been me. But with all the women around, each trying to be in charge, I just let them drone on, one sad tune after another.

  * * * *

  Homicide said it was a letter bomb, and when I went down to do the ID, I'd have to say whoever sent it used Priority Mail. Not much left to identify; most of the face, hands, and a good piece of his chest were gone. Yet there was always something about Nick Zero that set him apart. So from the bits of skin and hanks of hair that were left, I knew it was him. No next of kin, they said, and I guess I knew that, too. It was sobering to know that with all the women in his life, he'd put me on his wallet card as the emergency contact. After the ID, I made the calls, picked out the polished ebony coffin, and ran the announcement of his demise. Not first choice on how to spend a Friday afternoon, but as far as I knew, there was no one else.

  I'd picked a small parlor for the memorial and arranged a cremation afterwards. It surprised me that, even with the burn, you had to buy the coffin. Seemed like a waste of good wood, but if it was to be wasted on somebody, better Nick than most.

  The wake was more like a cocktail party than a memorial; waiters in evening clothes passed wine and hors d'oeuvres. I recognized some of the women, but most were new faces. The men seemed disinterested, along for the ride, with no special affinity for poor old Nick.

  "I'll miss him,” I said, “can't believe he's dead."

  "That the best you can say?” Connie was something of a scold when it came to the social graces. East Coast money, Wellesley, Hamptons in the summer. For hanging out with me, her family considered her a black ewe. I thought it showed her class.

  "Probably as good as he'll get from any man here. Nick was not well loved by the stronger sex."

  Connie snorted. She did that whenever I got too chauvinistic for her taste, which is another way of saying she snorted a lot. Her crude demeanor went a long way to explain our relationship. She was her own woman, and there was something about consorting with a private eye that appealed to her sense of adventure. Lord knows why; most of the work was dull, but too much Dashiell Hammett as a kid had warped her values.

  "Gabe?” The word was throaty as a Champagne rush with twice the effervescence. The voice, and the marvelously lithe body that went with it, belonged to Charity Schilling, one of Nick's most recent playthings, a striking woman who concealed her good looks by dressing impeccably. Today she wore white-collared black; her mahogany hair was glossy and tight against her head. Long-lashed brown eyes looked straight into mine with more spirit than sincerity. Charity, like Connie, was from old money, but there the similarity stopped. The four of us had doubled to see Garth Brooks once, and Nick had briefed me beforehand. Old Man Schilling, Charity's grandfather, made his fortune in electricity. He was one of those businessmen who were as good at making money as they were bad at building relationships. The traits reversed themselves in her father, who—while a charmer—managed to lose half the fortune.

  "Hi, Char,” Connie said before I could. “Condolences, I think."

  She dropped her eyes. “Thanks. He was special."

  From what I'd seen of her eyes, he wasn't special enough for tears, though as Connie had drilled me, it's uncouth to show emotion in public. I guess with a little money and the right upbringing, you can faucet it on and off.

  "We'll all miss him,” I said.

  "Yes,” she said, bringing the dry eyes back into mine. “I was wondering, well, actually, Nick said if anything should happen to him I was to go to you, said you'd know how to handle things."

  "What kind of things?"

  She looked around as if gauging the earshot. “Private things."

  I could feel Connie move closer so as not to miss any of it. I dropped my voice as if that would make what she was about to say more private. “Such as?"

  "You know how Nick was with money."

  In fact I didn't. He always seemed to have enough, lived well enough to have a love nest in addition to his regular apartment. But as to the volume of its flow, I'd never asked, nor had he told me. Between real men, talk of making money was a natural but how much of it you had was off-limits. The quartet slipped into their rendition of “Danny Boy,” which other than being a song about death didn't figure at all. The only Irish in Nick was Bushmills.

  "I loaned him some, sort of an investment."

  "A lot?"

  "Yes, quite a lot,” she whispered. “He gave me some paper and said it was secured by a life-insurance policy, but the paper wasn't si
gned and I have no proof of the policy. I saw him sign it, the paper, that is, but somehow when I checked there was no signature."

  "And you want me...?"

  "To find the original and the policy. Can you do that? I'll pay, of course, whatever your rate."

  "He could have shredded it,” Connie volunteered.

  "He'd never do that,” Charity said indignantly.

  I was about to say, “You don't know Nick,” but refrained, knowing she'd known him in ways I never had. “I don't think he had a shredder,” is what I said.

  "Can I count on you?” Those dark brown, dry eyes of hers boring into mine.

  "Wouldn't a lawyer be better at this?” I said, not sure I was ready to start poking around through Nick's stuff.

  "Not until I have a signed note. Besides, I'd rather avoid the publicity."

  "How much was the note for?” Connie asked.

  The quartet was really into “Danny Boy” and it seemed as if all conversation had stopped, either listening to the wailing Irish dirge or for Charity Schilling's answer.

  Her eyes shifted around the room, as if deciding whether to say and resolving that she had to tell me if she expected my help. “Half a million."

  "Whew,” Connie whistled.

  "Please,” Charity said, ignoring my well-bred companion's breezy response.

  "We'll see,” I said.

  "What's there to see?” Connie asked as soon as Charity had left.

  "For one thing, why she wants me snooping around Nick's stuff."

  "For God's sake, she told you."

  "Maybe, but it's hard to believe that anyone as savvy as Charity would have taken blank paper. She's looking for more."

  "Like?"

  "Like that policy. If that's her collateral, it depends on who the beneficiary is. If it goes to his trust, she's free and clear. It names a beneficiary, it bypasses the trust. Leaves her in the cold. Besides, seems to me that if you have a note secured by a life-insurance policy, there's only one way to call the note."

  "You mean...?"

  "Somebody had to send the valentine."

  "Hi, Gabe. Hi, Connie.” Desirée Starr wore a low-cut black sheath with a diamond pendant suspended an inch above her considerable cleavage. A blonde by choice, she had the farm-fresh features of an Ohio beauty: rosy lips and cheeks to match, flawless skin the texture of cream waiting to be skimmed from the pail. She hung from the arm of a man who was almost as tall as she, but who had the robust, weathered look of a weekend sailor.

  "Hello, Desirée, hello, Dusty,” Connie said. I grunted. While I liked Desirée, Dustin was a stuffed shirt, too aware of his own importance to pay me any courtesy. Whether he knew it or not, Dusty, by his wife's appearance here, was in a select group: Nick's cuckolds.

  "You know Nick well?” I asked Dusty. Before all the words were out, I felt Connie's spiked heel pierce my instep

  "Not well,” Dustin admitted, “friend of Desi's. Theater group, wasn't it?"

  Desirée gave a weak smile. From her eyes and the hankie wadded in her fist, there was no doubt she had been crying.

  "Dusty, darling,” she said in an innocent, fresh, little-girl voice, “I left my wine on the table, would you mind?"

  "Here,” Dustin said, signaling a waiter, “I'll get you another."

  "Nooo,” she cooed, “mine was just the right temperature. It's right over there.” She pointed to a lone glass on a regency table across the room.

  As soon as he turned, Desirée said in a low voice, “Nick said if I needed help I was to ask you, and I need help."

  I arched my brows. “Nick is generous."

  Her eyes rolled heavenward. “Oh, if you only knew,” she said. “Time for that later, though.” She fingered the diamond around her neck. “See this?"

  I peered into her cleavage. “Couldn't help but."

  "It's fake. The real one's in Nick's apartment. I need you to get it for me."

  "I'm not sure..."

  She straightened. “Promise,” she said, and turned a smile on Dusty, who was returning with the wine.

  "Promise what?” Dustin asked.

  "To audition for Nick's part in the play. He'd be so good, don't you think?"

  "He'd be terrible,” Connie said.

  "I'll think about it,” I said.

  As Desi and her mate moved to mingle, Connie said, “You're popular."

  "Only basking in Nick's reflected glow."

  "Which place does she want you to search, the apartment or the love nest?"

  "He didn't take many to the love nest. Said it was reserved for the crème de la crème.” I grinned at my little bon mot. It was not often I was able to gloat with Connie around, but when I could, I took the opportunity."

  "You're disgusting,” she said, and by the triteness of the comeback I knew I had scored big.

  I sensed rather than saw a movement across the parlor that evolved into a parting of the human sea. A blonde, statuesque and poised, flanked by what seemed to be a coterie of attendants, crested the wave rolling toward me. Her black dress, while proper, had a shimmer of blue that gave it an uncommon elegance. Silk, most likely. The neckline modestly covered her throat and she wore no jewelry, not that she needed any. A few feet from me she shrugged off her clique and made the last few steps alone.

  "Mr. Sparks?” she asked, her blue eyes boldly holding mine. Either she bleached her brows or the wheat color was natural.

  I gave a half nod and she extended her hand. “I'm Gracie Hathor,” she said, as if it should mean something. Her grip was strong, her eyes unwavering, though she tended to bat her lashes every third word. Close up, I could see she wore makeup that exaggerated her features, and though I prefer women in their natural state, on her the effect was pleasing. Her nose was straight enough to have had some help and her smile so even that it seemed a fixture.

  "Hi,” I said, “this is Connie McRath."

  She beamed her smile in Connie's direction but didn't offer her hand. “Nick said if I ever needed help, I should call you. May we talk?” She said it with a tone and manner that left no doubt she expected me to walk away from Connie and afford our conversation the privacy of a confessional. Experience told me any such move would have a price far greater than any I would receive from the pleasure of a moment alone with Gracie Hathor.

  "Connie's my associate,” I said. “Feel free to talk."

  I could tell this was not an arrangement Gracie Hathor cherished, yet her alternative was to turn and walk, something I sensed she would not do.

  "As I said,” she reluctantly continued, “Nick recommended you. I need someone discreet.” She paused. I stayed silent, giving her a sense of my discretion; then a light came to her eye. “You don't know me, do you?” The question expressed a revelation, as if I were lonely Diogenes and she my lamp. “I'm sorry,” she said, “how vain of me. I'm a minister and most people have seen my show.” Her cheeks, even through the pancake, reddened. For the first time her eyes wavered and looked down.

  "I have,” Connie said. “You're wonderful. Gabe, this is Sister Gracie. Forgive him, Sister, he doesn't do much television."

  That seemed to bring her back, and she favored Connie momentarily with her smile. “Thank you. Well,” she said, hesitating enough to let me know a confidence was coming, “well, even though this is awkward, I need complete discretion. Nick said you could be trusted, and I'd like to take his word, but I need to hear it from you."

  I said, “You have my word."

  She looked nervously at Connie. What is it about women that makes them suspicious of beautiful women? A sixth sense? Something genetic? I'd, of course, heard all the talk about how candid women are talking to other women, more candid, I think, than I'd ever be with a man, yet when there is reserve between women, the silence seems as barren as a nunnery. She had no reason to distrust Connie, who knew most things I knew. That was the nature of our relationship. And it would probably have been all right for me to relay the conversation, but preacher-lady had a problem with
her being there. Instead of alleviating the tension, I relaxed and enjoyed it. Gracie Hathor made a half turn, giving Connie only a shoulder to chew on, which, I suppose, allowed her a sense of privacy. “There were some tapes,” Gracie whispered. “Videos."

  "You and him?"

  "Yes,” she said.

  "Compromising positions?"

  "Not at the time, but my flock might not understand. Whatever your fee, double it."

  "I'm expensive."

  "Triple it,” she said, “but no one is to know."

  "How many were there—videos, that is?"

  She frowned and the lines above that straight nose folded together like an exclamation. “Six, I think, though there might have only been five. Take them all, whatever you can find. Bring them to me."

  "Yours might not be the only ones."

  The temperature of those water-blue eyes dropped fifty degrees. “You bastard."

  I could tell the sentiment was heartfelt. “Just giving it to you straight, ma'am. Look around, these women aren't here for a sorority meeting."

  For all her poise, I sensed she was near the edge. Somehow, I felt this was foreign territory, that her land was always the high ground, where she could command with impunity, where there was never risk or jeopardy. “I'll see what I can do,” I said. “Where can I reach you?"

  She handed me a card, and without ever looking back marched to her coterie, which fell in step as she parted the people in her flow to the door.

  "Angel of the Lord,” I said, putting my arm over Connie's shoulder.

  "Fallen angel,” Connie said. “I heard the part about the tapes."

  "Nick always had a sense of humor. Nothing else, he knows how to bring in the business."

  She looked at me quizzically. “You going to work for all of them?"

  "Not sure I'm going to work for any of them. Not, that is, unless they can tell me who sent Nick his funny valentine."

  "Seems,” Connie said, “any one of them might have."

  I gave her a squeeze. “You're a hopeless romantic."

  * * * *

  Nick kept busy by doing odd bits of consulting, mainly public relations and running political campaigns. He was good enough so that the free press he manufactured usually got the client elected. The job, naturally, thrust him into the arms of opinion makers, by and large the beautiful people, those who assumed they would be listened to simply because they were good to look at. The money was enough to pay rent at the three places he kept: office, apartment, and pied-à-terre. None of them downscale.