by Dave Daren
I frowned. “When?”
“Uh, you’ll see when we get there,” she said.
“Yeah, that doesn’t sound cryptic at all,” I muttered.
“Well,” she chuckled, “we’re only going to dinner with a man that’s under investigation for murder. I think cryptic is appropriate.”
“Oh, that makes it totally less scary,” I added.
The GPS announced our arrival, and then I knew exactly when we’d been here. We were parked at the end of a suburban neighborhood on the bank of a small pond. In the middle of the pond, on an island, was a wooden house. But not just any wooden house. The roof curved and slanted, and the giant windows all created a massive dragon’s eye.
“We have to cross the moat to get to the dragon’s lair,” I remembered.
“Correct,” Vicki laughed.
We had been here when we were looking at houses, only we ran for our lives once we saw the moat. Or was it the dragon that scared us off? I didn’t remember which came first, the chicken or the egg. The point was, we ran.
“I can’t believe he bought it,” I mused.
“You can’t?” she laughed. “I can’t think of anyone better to live here.”
I stood on the bank and looked the dragon pupil dead on. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“So,” she said, “how do we get over there?”
I scratched my head. “I don’t really know,” I admitted.
Suddenly, from the other side of the pond, we saw The Count rowing toward us in a canoe.
“Well,” I chuckled, “I guess that’s our ride.”
“High end shoes be damned,” she laughed.
“Louboutin?” I asked.
She looked at me like I’d just woken up from under a rock.
“No,” she said. “Marc Jacobs. Geez.”
“My apologies to Napoleon Dynamite,” I muttered.
She laughed, and The Count arrived at the banks with his canoe. He tipped his hat.
“Hop in, good sir and madam,” he said. “I shall take you to my home.”
Vicki and I looked at each other, and then she slipped off her Marc Jacobs shoes and boarded the canoe barefoot.
“My apologies, madam,” The Count said, and he looked embarrassed. “Perhaps we should have chosen somewhere more … comfortable.”
“This is perfect,” she smiled, “I’ve never been to a house with a moat. It looks lovely.”
“It is lovely,” The Count agreed with a grin. “I’m sure you will enjoy your stay.”
I shrugged and followed her into the boat, and during the three minute ride to the house, The Count babbled on and on about the dragon eye and everything the realtor had told us when we’d looked at it.
“I built it,” he said as he puffed out his chest in pride, “and I tried to sell it not too long ago, but then I couldn’t part with it.”
“We’re looking into building our house,” Vicki told him.
“Really?” he asked as we arrived at the island. “It such a personal endeavor, such a joy to do it yourself.”
We all got out of the boat and arrived at the dragon’s eye. Up close, it looked a little more like a house. It had a curved roof, and the windows were the eyeballs, with a height that rose and fell to produce a tiered oval.
The Count also had a well maintained yard, with flowerbeds and even a lemon tree.
“Lemons, huh?” I noted.
“During the summer,” he said, “I sell them to a man who sells them at the farmer’s market. The rest, I’m afraid they rot. It’s a tricky business having a fruit tree in your yard.”
We walked up a rather pleasing porch and then stepped inside. The interior was darker than I expected. There were large velvet curtains that covered the windows, and I guess they also kept out the desert heat.
The Count flipped on lantern style sconces, and the decorating theme was a medieval castle or something of the sort. It was a small cabin, though, with mainly one room, but I also saw a small kitchen-dining area and a closed door that presumably led to a bedroom.
“Have a seat,” he gestured, “I shall serve our meal.”
Vicki and I sat down on the couch. The couches were dark red velvet with ornate gold footing. Against one wall was an antique mahogany desk with a typewriter, and piles of typewritten pages sat at intervals all over the room.
I picked up a stack and flipped through it. It looked like the beginnings of a dystopian science fiction novel, with an erotica twist.
“Look at this,” Vicki said.
I set down the papers, and she pointed toward the wall. All over the walls hung historical weaponry, but a massive silver sword sat displayed in a metal stand in a corner. It had an ornate curved gold handle and glistened in the low light.
“Now,” I told Vicki emphatically, “That. Is. Cool.”
“That is super awesome,” she agreed, and we rose to inspect the sword.
“We have to get one of these,” I said.
“Where would we put it?” she asked.
“I don’t care,” I stated. “We’re getting one. Non-negotiable.”
Alfred appeared from the other room and smiled at us looking at the sword.
“That is a general officers sword,” he said. “It was used by officers of King George’s army during the American Revolution.”
“Where did you get it?” I asked as I studied the intricate gold carvings.
“From an antique dealer I met in England,” he said. “It cost a fortune to have it sent to the U.S. since I couldn’t exactly put it on a plane.”
“Right,” I said, and Vicki and I both laughed.
“Here,” he said. “Step back.”
Vicki and I cleared the area around the sword, and he pulled it off the stand.
“It’s been dulled to be a historical artifact,” he told us, “but it still has an edge to it. You can hold it if you’d like.”
I shrugged and grabbed the weapon from Alfred. It was heavier than I expected, but it didn’t take long for me to get a feel for it. I played around with a couple of fencing moves, and Vicki and Alfred laughed.
“I have to get a photo of this,” Vicki snickered.
She pulled out her phone and took shots of me with the sword, and then we switched off. When Vicki grabbed the sword, she looked damn hot.
Alfred and I both laughed as she pulled some sort of I don’t know, Mortal Kombat, hot Asian warrior chick moves.
“Damn,” I whistled as I caught it on video.
“Well, if you’re ready,” Alfred said, “dinner is served.”
I nodded, and Vicki returned the sword to Alfred. Then he took us out a backdoor to a gorgeous waterfront dining area.
“This is beautiful,” I remarked as I looked around. A white pavilion with twinkle lights and antique style lanterns covered an outdoor table.
“Wow,” Vicki said with wide eyes. “I didn’t even know this was out here.”
Alfred smiled. “I’m glad it pleases you.”
Dinner with The Count was simple. He served a French Onion soup with a baguette, a salad, and a white wine as we listened to ducks and the gentle stirring of the pond.
The Count told stories of his adventures in England while we ate, and how he had been to Oscar Wilde’s museum when he was in his twenties, and then met him in a seance.
“He’s the one who commissioned me to write,” Alfred said as he sipped his wine. “Everything I am is because of Oscar.”
“Jimi Hendrix told Henry’s dad to start a garden,” Vicki remarked with a smirk before she took a bite of her salad.
Alfred nodded, but then he tilted his head quizzically. “Who?”
I wanted to laugh, but just smiled politely instead. “He was a rock star. It’s not a big thing. So, I saw the typewriter in there. Is that mainly where you write?”
He smiled and took a sip of wine. “I write in many different ways, using many different mediums. I find it helps the creative process.”
“What’s your process?�
�� I baited him.
I’d known enough artsy fartsy types in my day to know how much he wanted to be asked that question.
His face lit up, and I knew I’d asked the right thing.
“It depends on what I am writing,” he replied. “When I was writing Gretchen and John, it was a regimented process.”
Gretchen and John were the main characters in Jerry’s ill-fated film, and I guessed his shorthand way to refer to the film.
“Gretchen and John,” he sighed as he went on, “I loved those two. They became good friends of mine, and they lived here in the cabin with me.”
I nodded and took a sip of wine. I assumed he was speaking metaphorically, but the more he spoke, the more I wondered if he was being literal.
“I just enjoyed their company so much,” he mused. “I wouldn’t write unless I could feel their presence, and I could feel what they were feeling. Sometimes, I believed they would take over my body, and I would be them. All I would have to do is act it out and describe what they were thinking and saying. I could even feel their body language. There were times they were so strong, writing was easy. It was just describing what was happening in here.”
He pointed to his brain, and I listened politely. I got that the whole writing process is a mysterious thing. I really did. But this guy was taking it to a whole new level.
“I have pages upon pages of scenes I transmitted from their lives that may or may not have any relevance to the novel I wrote,” Alfred continued. “I just felt it all happening, and I knew I needed to get it down. In some ways, it became backstory to the novel.”
I turned to Vicki, and she wore a smiling poker face.
“I added all of that,” The Count went on, “to the historical research I had, and I came up with something that feels genuine, organic, and real.”
“So, these characters take over your body?” I questioned.
“Well,” he said with a frown, “I wouldn’t put it so bluntly. It’s not unlike getting into character as an actor. You can feel your character, you can smell him, you can find his facial expressions … it’s all channeling.”
“Do you think Jerry did all of this with his writing?” Vicki asked.
“No,” he scoffed and made a disgusted face, “Jerry was a corporate writer. He wrote for the audience, for the page. He wrote to sell tickets and fill seats. He did not write for the love of writing, the love of a great character, or the love of getting out a story that needs to be told.” Alfred sipped his wine, and a dark expression came over his face. “These days, anyone with half a high school diploma and an internet connection can type up drivel and call themselves a writer. They have their … blogs.”
He spat the word out like it was bad candy or something.
“I understand technology moves on,” he continued to rant, “history tells us that those who don’t embrace it get left in the dust. And I have no issue with the medium itself, as long as the ‘blogger,’ as they say, can tell the difference between ‘they’re,’ ‘there’ and, ‘their'. It would seem that rules out half of the blog community.”
I didn’t tell him AJ was an important member of our firm and had an excellent blog. Although, I did have to agree with his point about online literacy.
“What do you think happened to Jerry?” I asked after a pause.
“Honestly,” he sighed, “Jerry Steele … if I may be blunt … ”
“Please,” I urged with a nod.
Alfred took a deep breath and then leaned forward with a conspiratorial air.
“I think it was money,” he whispered. “Jerry had more money problems than anyone I have known in a long time. He tried to keep it hidden in polite company. But there were signs.”
“Like what?” I pressed.
“Oh,” he said with a wave of his hand, “I would frequently hear him on phone calls arguing about money. And Leila Jaxson could tell you about invoices that weren’t paid and even checks that were returned.”
“She didn’t mention any of that to me when I talked to her,” Vicki said with a frown.
“She wouldn’t,” Alfred replied and shook his head. “She’s loyal to Jerry, especially now.”
“Well, it seems this guy was running a business on straight up fumes,” I mused as I drummed my fingers on the table.
The Count nodded. “That’s one way it could be said. “He was juggling bills on his personal credit cards, and the money the city gave him for the film was spent before the check was even received.”
“Then why did you sign on with him?” I asked.
“I didn’t know all of this until I got deeper into it,” he answered with a shrug. “That’s why I visited you that day.”
“So,” I said as I leaned back in my chair, “Jerry was drowning in bad debt and had enemies all over town.”
“Correct,” Alfred agreed. “I believe it was someone to whom he owed money.”
“Do you know Allen Wagenschutz?” I asked.
The Count furrowed his brow.
“No,” he said. “I have not heard that name. Who is that?”
“Loan shark,” I replied. “Jerry owed him money.”
“I wouldn’t doubt that,” he snorted. “Nefarious characters are frequently found in company with ne’er-do-well rascals like Jerry.”
We sat in silence for a moment, and then he brightened.
“So,” he clapped his hands together. “Tell me of your house plans.”
“Well,” Vicki chuckled, “we have barely started. We bought the land, and now we’re looking at designers.”
The Count’s eyes brightened. “Eureka!” he exclaimed. “I have a great idea!”
“What is that?” she asked, and I looked at him quizzically.
“With your permission, of course,” he said, “I would love to design your house.”
I cleared my throat and bit back a wince. “You?”
“Yes,” he clapped his hands together and nodded his head vigorously, “I designed this place, and since we already know one another, I can imagine something that is intimate, and personal, and has your unique energy.”
I wasn’t sure if I wanted something intimate, personal, and unique. I mainly wanted something fairly average with our custom picked elements selected from a drop down menu--things like a skylight, smart capability, and a swimming pool. I wanted to split hairs over things like what shade of white marble do we want for the kitchen, and I didn’t think we needed all of Alfred Dumont’s imaginative powers for that.
“I don’t know if--” I started, but he interrupted me.
“Let me draw up a preliminary sketch for you,” he insisted. “I promise after you see what I design for you, you will look no further.”
Vicki and I glanced at each other.
“Well,” Vicki allowed as she cast me a reassuring smile, “I guess it couldn’t hurt to look at a sketch.”
“Great!” Alfred cried with a broad grin. “Then it’s settled. I will bring plans to your place of business in the morning. Let us drink on it.”
He lifted his wine glass, and Vicki and I toasted on our alleged partnership.
“We have many days ahead of us together,” Alfred said as he rose for emphasis. “Let us say our goodbyes and end while the night is still young.”
He took us back through the house and toward the canoe where he and Vicki talked about house plans all the way back to our car.
“This should be interesting,” I muttered as soon as we were back in our car.
“But did you see how excited he was,” she said. “How could you say no to that?”
“You’re so much nicer than I am,” I sighed.
“I know,” she laughed, and I couldn’t help the smile that twitched at the corner of my mouth.
Chapter 8
Thursday morning dawned, and we still had no solid leads. Vicki and AJ turned our office into a boiler room, and they got on the phone and talked to everyone who knew anyone.
AJ was following the Clare angle while I had th
e crime photos zoomed to high definition on my screen, but I still wasn’t finding anything.
“Clare didn’t go to yoga that day,” AJ told us. “I just got off the phone with LotusWorx.”
“Did they even know who she was?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “I spoke to your mom, so she told me everything I wanted to know.”
I laughed. “Yeah, she teaches there.”
“She’s a nice lady,” AJ said with a small smile. “I’ve seen her around a few times.”
“You haven’t really met her, have you?” I realized.
“I know who she is,” AJ shrugged, “but I don’t think I’d ever really talked to her.”
“You should meet her one day,” I said. “Anyway, so if Clare wasn’t at yoga, like she said, then where was she, and why did she lie?”
“That’s what we need to find out,” AJ replied. “I’m pulling up her Facebook and Instagram right now. Maybe she posted something.”
“She would have taken down anything that didn’t match up with her alibi,” I pointed out.
“Maybe she got sloppy,” AJ countered.
“It’s possible,” I allowed, “but I doubt it. Not with something this high stakes. Try the in-laws. They may be a better bet.”
Suddenly, my phone buzzed.
“Henry Irving,” I answered.
“Henry,” Chet’s voice came through. “How are things looking?”
I cleared my throat. “We’ve found a lot of leads your guys missed.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “What have you got?”
“Whole lot of loose ends right now,” I replied, “but we’re closing in.”
“I can only give you till the end of business tomorrow,” he sighed. “Then I’ve got to charge him. I’ve got the DA breathing down my neck. Get me something, Henry, or your guy’s going down.”
“We’ll have it, Chet,” I promised.
“That’s what I like to hear,” he said.
I ended the call with Chet, but before I could relay what he said to Vicki and AJ, a beautiful woman walked into the office.
“Leila,” Vicki said as she rose and greeted the other woman.
Leila Jaxson was a petite woman of Persian descent, in her early thirties, I would guess. She was slender, with long, dark hair billowing down her back in voluminous waves. Today she wore black leather pants, a black Johnny Cash t-shirt, and high heeled thigh boots.