Mrs. Dabney faltered a bit at my response. The cold weather was wearing on my demeanor the way it so often did, though, and I couldn't be bothered if she found me rude. She left my view as she leaned forward to speak to her driver, but a moment later she popped back into place and the car engine turned off, sending the street back to its peaceful quietness.
“I do hate to bother you,” she said, “but it's very important that I speak with you. It will only take a few minutes.”
I took another drag from my cigarette and shrugged.
“You see,” Mrs. Dabney went on a bit more hurriedly, perhaps noting my indifference, “I've heard about you, through various friends, and I have an offer for you.”
“And which friends are these?”
“Pardon?”
“Which friends are these?” I repeated, “since I seriously doubt you and I have any common acquaintances.”
Mrs. Dabney gave a little chuckle, possibly to hide her uneasiness with my blunt tone. She leaned further out the window.
“David Richardson, for one. William Burton. Isidore Lennox.”
My hand twitched, sending an ember from the tip of my cigarette flying down to the ground. I didn't care how big her social circle was: the idea that my old thesis adviser, Bill, and Lennox all just happened to bump into her and tell her about me was far too coincidental. She had undoubtedly sought them out to question them, and the thought made me uncomfortable.
“And what did they tell you about me?” I asked casually.
“Oh, lots of things. It seems you have quite the talent for remembering things.”
“I do. What's it to you?”
Mrs. Dabney chuckled again. It was far too reminiscent of the way Lennox always smiled at my bluntness, and I couldn't help but wonder if he had told her the details of my personality along with whatever other information she had inquired about – though I couldn't bring myself to ask.
“I happen to be in need of someone who can remember things when I cannot,” Mrs. Dabney said. “I have a large social circle, and a woman of my age finds it harder and harder to recall the details of what her friends are doing, much less her friends' children and those children's spouses, and on and on. I'd like to hire you to remember for me.”
The hint of intrigue I had been entertaining withered away. She wanted an assistant: nothing more and nothing less. I wasn't sure what I had been expecting, but now that I heard what she was after, it occurred to me that upon seeing her fancy car pulled up to the front of my building, I had been hoping for something more. A thrill – an adventure. For as much as I hated to admit it, I missed the excitement I had felt when I was on Exeter Island. I missed the danger and the mystery that had pulled me out of the humdrum my life had become after years of obsessing over a degree that would never be finished, and I missed the way my memory had been used for something greater than just the mere repetition that proved it wasn't slipping away. And I missed Lennox, too, and I hated that I had thought the old woman might offer me an excuse to see him again that wouldn't require me to admit as much.
“It sounds like you're in need of a secretary,” I said tiredly, dropping my cigarette and taking out another with the intention of returning to the solitary state she had interrupted. “I'm sure there are plenty of girls with the appropriate degree who would be happy to work for you. So thank you – but no thank you.”
“Wait –”
She fumbled with the handle to open the car door, and her driver jumped out to get it for her.
“No, no – that's fine, Damien,” she said, waving him back to his seat. “I'm quite capable –”
She didn't look very capable, but she managed to slowly make her way out of the car and up onto the sidewalk where I stood, unsteady as she was.
“You misunderstand me, Miss Durant,” she said as she neared me. “I don't want someone standing next to me with a pen and paper whilst I'm trying to make small talk. I need someone who can remember things without prompting, who can whisper in my ear to tell me who's walking toward us and give me a summary of who they are. I need someone subtle. Someone like you.”
“I'm not sure anyone described me very well if they told you I was 'subtle,'” I said flatly.
“And did they describe you incorrectly when they said you're sharp, clever and resilient, as well?” she challenged. “Make no mistake, Miss Durant, they had their fair share of complaints. David said that you were unreasonably stubborn and always looking for faults when you ought to have been looking for a husband, but he didn't deny you've got a talent.”
I held the smoke in my mouth without fully inhaling it as I thought.
“What did Dr. Lennox say?”
Mrs. Dabney smiled, once again revealing her short little teeth.
“Oh, he had lots to say about you – especially when he was pumped full of morphine,” she said. “You don't need an old woman to tell you any of it, though.”
“Don't I?”
“Pardon?”
“I don't know who else is going to tell me, is all.”
I crossed my arms, a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance pounding at my chest. Lennox had asked me to call him, but I hadn't been able to – though his phone number played in my memory late at night when the loneliness sneaked in with the dark. He had offered me lots of things when I had last seen him: to talk to the university, to help me find a spot at another, to get me a job in New York, to pay my rent – but I didn't want any of those things from him, and the things I did want from him I was too uncertain of attaining. And I couldn't deny that the events on Exeter Island had changed my heart, but I also couldn't deny that it didn't seem to matter since my situation – my life – hadn't been changed with it.
“I've known Isidore for many years,” Mrs. Dabney said, breaking into my thoughts. “I never knew him at his best, but I knew him at his worst. You saved his life, you know – and I don't mean by getting him out of that burning house. He was haunted for years over the death of his family. He's not haunted anymore.”
“Did he say that, or is that your interpretation?”
“He said it, though you'll forgive me if it's not his exact wording. If I could remember it verbatim I wouldn't be here hiring you.”
“Well, I don't need to be hired. I have a job already.”
“Your job as a waitress at the little diner down the street, you mean?” Mrs. Dabney countered coyly. “I think we both know that you can do a little better than that.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“I'm a thirty-year-old woman with a Master's Degree in psychology and no husband, Mrs. Dabney,” I replied, “so I think you and I both know that I really can't do much better than that.” I dropped my cigarette and stomped it out next to the first one. “Now, if you don't mind, I need to get back inside before my mother gets worried.”
“Oh, Miss Durant – just one minute more. I've come a long way to see you –”
“Then you wasted your time.”
“Not yet, I haven't. I read about you in the papers after John Marlowe died, you know, and I spoke at length to the police about you. They said you solved not one, but two murders single-handedly.”
“That's interesting, considering that they didn't believe me when I told them about the second murder,” I said, trying not to sound too bitter as the memory of recounting Edie's admission to the police floated back to me.
“Oh, they believe you,” Mrs. Dabney said with another chuckle. “They won't do anything about it, but they believe you.”
I threw her a skeptical look.
“I'm not sure what this has to do with anything,” I said.
“Then please let me explain. In a few weeks' time, I'll be embarking on the RMS Queen Mary and sailing to England with some family members and close friends, and it's imperative that I have you with me. I would pay your way, of course, as well as wages for your time.”
“I'm just not interested,” I said. “Good night, Mrs. Dabney.”
I made to move away but was
stopped by her hand on my arm. She was a head shorter than me and her fingers were bent with arthritis, so the firmness of her grip took me off guard.
“But I would make it worth your while. You could name your price.”
“Sorry, I've learned my lesson about taking large sums of money from people I hardly know,” I said. “So thank you, but no thank you.”
“But Miss Durant, you really don't understand: I need you to accompany me.”
“And I'm sure you can find someone else,” I said, prying her fingers from my arm. “There are plenty of people with good memories who can help you remember what's going on in your social circle.”
“But that's not all I need,” Mrs. Dabney said, shuffling sideways so that she was in front of me again. “And that's why I need you – that's why I've come all this way – and I really can't accept a no.”
She leaned in close to me, filling my nostrils with the scent of strong peppermint oil and bergamot, and her milky eyes widened in a near-comical way.
“You see,” she whispered, and she gave another little chuckle as though realizing she probably ought to have just told me at the beginning of the conversation, “I need you to come so that you can find out who's going to murder me.”
About the Authors
Laura Giebfried is the author of six novels. As a native Mainer, her stories are often set in New England. Giebfried has a degree in Psychology, New Media, and two certificates in screenwriting. As of 2020, she is working on her Master's Degree in Forensic Psychology.
This is the first novel that she has co-authored with her husband, Stan Wells.
Stanley R. Wells is a former actor who guest starred on several television series including M*A*S*H, Bret Maverick, Palmerstown, USA, and co-starred in the Emmy winning television production of The Miracle Worker. In the late nineties he opened The Empty Stage Theater in Los Angeles where he wrote and directed the critically acclaimed play Three and directed the improv groups The Transformers and The Waterbrains, who are still performing regularly in LA more than twenty years later. Wells still teaches and directs improv in Bangor, Maine, where he currently lives with his wife, Laura Giebfried, though now he devotes most of his time to writing novels and screenplays.
The Marlowe Murders Page 33