The Reluctant Detective

by Finley Martin

  “My name is Mrs. Frances Murphy,” she began. “I’m a widow ten years now. I have no children and, when a person has no children, they find something else to mother.” She smiled again, this time more relaxed but with a touch of sadness. She continued.

  “For me that took the form of philanthropy. My husband left me quite well off, and giving away money requires no great skill, of course, but I’ve always been quite particular about knowing where it’s going and how it’s being used. In addition to making charitable use of my own money, I also chair several foundations which fund-raise and disperse money to worthwhile causes. Some are local… food banks and such. Some are abroad – the horn of Africa, Central America – I visit some of these places when I can. To see what great things a little generosity can achieve is… some might say heart-warming or inspirational… but those words… perhaps no words can capture that wonderful emotion. It’s completely overwhelming. On the other hand, knowing what desperation and hopelessness still remains is truly heartbreaking.”

  Anne nodded. She had no need to prod her. Once primed, the woman grew in passion and in eloquence. In ten more minutes Mrs. Murphy had conjured images of starved African villagers stacked in mass graves; bands of orphans trudging through barren grassland; watering holes poisoned by Canadian mine tailings; and Asian brothels filled with daughters sold into slavery to pay down their parents’ debts.

  “There seems to be no end of desperate places in a world of plenty, does there?” Mrs. Murphy stopped. Her eyes glowed. She took a deep breath.

  “So, you’re looking for a charitable contribution then.”

  “Oh, dear me, no!” she said. “I want you… Mr. Darby, I mean… to investigate someone… someone I’m very fond of.”

  5

  “What’s on sale today?” Anne asked. The door behind her slammed shut. Anne strode through the small showroom, past the cash register and two rows of display cases. Under one glass were cameras the size of a button, large-format bodies for night surveillance, several antique Russian models for microfilm, and one for mounting on a plane. A second case displayed an array of listening devices, analog or digital, satellite, line of sight, or directional – everything needed to track your kid, monitor your car, or hunt down a cheating spouse.

  “Back here,” hollered Dit. Anne poked her head through the doorway to a second room. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright. Tiny beads of sweat glimmered on her forehead.

  “Hey! There you are. What’s on sale today?” She asked cheerily.

  Dit looked up from a workbench in his shop and furrowed his brow. “What’s the matter with you? You got a fever?”

  “Nope. Jogged over here. Picked up Jacqui at school. Dropped her at a friend’s. And here I am.”

  “Well,” he said, “if you’ve a mind to buy something, what about this radio?” He pointed to a 1950s RCA tabletop model. It had a dark wood cabinet, and she could see a glow of vacuum tubes with the back panel removed.

  “It’s lovely,” she said. “What does it do?”

  “It’s AM/FM. No batteries, of course. Manual tuning. Three shortwave bands.”

  “I mean, what does it do?”

  “Nothing. It’s a radio.”

  “What? No hidden cameras, or taping devices. Anything…?”

  Dit just stared at her and grinned. “Nope. Just a radio.”

  “So why are you working on it?”

  “I love these old things,” he said. “They’re works of art.”

  “And you, my friend, are a piece of work. That’s why I luv ya.” Anne bent down and gave him a hug around the neck.

  “I need some advice.” She had suddenly turned serious.

  Dit freed the brake on the wheelchair and swung around to face her.

  “Shoot!”

  “I’m half-thinking about taking over the agency and carrying on. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re half-right about it.”

  “Please don’t joke. I’m serious about this.”

  “I’m not joking, Anne. If you’re not completely sure that this is what you want to do, then don’t. Running a business, any business, is tough work. It means sacrifices… less quality time with Jacqui… no personal life. And running Billy’s business means standing toe-to-toe with greedy, nasty, and, sometimes, downright dangerous characters. I’ll bet Billy never told you about any of those cases. So don’t rush into anything.”

  “You don’t think I can do it?”

  “My opinion means nothing. You’re one of the cleverest women I know, Anne, but if you can’t answer the question yourself, then you’ve got no business in that business.”

  “Thanks, Dit. You’re a peach.” She kissed the top of his head. Then she messed his hair and bounded out of the shop. “Goin’ to Mary Anne’s later,” she shouted. Dit nodded.

  Anne jogged back to her apartment and soaked in a long hot shower before she started supper. Hamburgers sizzled on the frying pan and buns heated in the oven. Jacqui chopped lettuce and tomatoes and onions and broccoli for the salad. Anne set the table, and then she told Jacqui about Mrs. Murphy’s visit.

  “I didn’t have the heart to tell her that there was no detective agency any more. I just let her talk. I think she felt better at the end.”

  “You told her no?”

  “Not exactly. I explained that our consultation gave us the info to evaluate her problem. We’d discuss it and then get back to her about whether or not we’d take her case.”

  “Couldn’t you help her?”

  “You wouldn’t want me to get involved in detailed investigations, would you?”

  “Why not? You helped Uncle Billy with that stuff, didn’t you?”

  “Sure. But if I did, it would mean too many changes around here. I couldn’t always make supper on time… I might have to work late… less help with homework. You’d have to shoulder more responsibilities.”

  “That wouldn’t be… too bad.”

  “Sometimes I might have to ask someone to look in on you or even stay overnight. I know you’re almost fifteen, and I know that you’re responsible, and I do trust you, but I’m sure that all that would be the last thing you’d want at your age.”

  “Does it mean that we could stay here and not have to change schools?”

  “I think she’s nuts… Nuts,” Ben Solomon said. Sarah shrugged. They were sharing a beer at their usual table at The Blue Peter. Dit said nothing.

  “I mean… look at her, for God’s sake. What is she… 5’3”… 120 or something. What kind of intimidation is that?”

  “Well,” said Sarah, “she’s pretty bright, and she’s worked investigations with Billy for a few years now. She must know a thing or two.”

  “In theory, maybe. Outside of doing background checks or posing as a shopper on some in-store theft case.”

  “She’s stronger-willed than you think, Sam. I think she’ll do all right.”

  “I can’t understand how she can actually run the agency without a PI’s license, though,” said Dit.

  “Yeah, she can,” Ben said reluctantly. “Billy has to get a private investigator’s license for anyone who works in his office… anyone, that is, who conducts background checks or makes private inquiries. She has one, for sure. I know that.”

  “Then again, this is Prince Edward Island. How much trouble can she get into?”

  “There are enough dickheads around here to jam her up. All I know is that I wouldn’t want my daughter playin’ cop.” Ben looked around impatiently. “Where is she, anyway?

  6

  As soon as Anne left Dit’s shop, she knew what she wanted. Uncle Billy’s business was hers. That was clear from his will. What she did with it was her business. So why throw it away? It made no sense. She knew the business, for the most part. She wasn’t a crusty old hand at it, but she wasn’t exactly a novic
e either. Also, she needed a job. She had a family to support and, if that took a bit of sacrifice, what the hell, she thought. And, most of all, Jacqui seemed okay with it.

  Anne dropped Jacqui at her friend’s house and promised to pick her up at nine. In the meantime, she returned to the office and made the call to Mrs. Murphy, telling her that the agency would take the case and begin the investigation immediately.

  Mrs. Murphy was relieved at the news, and, when she hung up the phone, Anne was relieved as well. She had begun her first case. She was on her own. And with those thoughts she felt a small thrill of excitement course through her body and slowly shrink into an anxious resolve to make it all work. But even that, she perceived, was a good feeling.

  During her afternoon consultation with Mrs. Murphy, Anne had taken careful notes. She liked Mrs. Murphy. She appeared to be a woman of great compassion and quiet civility. She was a widow, too, and that made Anne feel even more sympathetic to her concerns of vulnerability. In fact, Anne had decided that this case, her first one, would be pro bono, partly in honour of Billy, partly because it involved protecting the charitable work of Mrs. Murphy, and partly because, deep down, Anne still didn’t think of herself as a professional. If she screwed it up somehow, at least the client wouldn’t be out of pocket.

  Anne sat before her office computer, sorted notes, typed up some personal information on Mrs. Murphy, printed it out, and inserted it in a fresh case file folder. Then she began a second document, this one detailing Mrs. Murphy’s concerns about Robert Somerville. She questioned his credibility. She wanted a background check conducted, and she wanted it done confidentially.

  Ironically, Mrs. Murphy had no reason to suspect him of anything – other than her belief that he was too good to be true. This amused Anne.

  I should have such problems, she thought to herself.

  Frances Murphy had met Robert Somerville at a Rotary Club dinner meeting. The guest speaker had been Dr. Sanje Kwa’hnu, a representative of Doctors Without Borders, who’d spoken about the work of that volunteer group in Central Africa. Gary Phelan, a real estate agent, had introduced Somerville to Mrs. Murphy as his client. Somerville had been viewing shore properties. Apparently, he had some vague ancestral connection with the Island. Murphy and Somerville had hit it off immediately. They shared interests in philanthropy and had similar tastes in art and music. Most of all, they seemed to share an instant liking of one another. Since then, there had been no intimacy between them – Somerville had been a perfect gentleman – but they’d grown quite close in just a few weeks and saw each other almost daily. Somerville had admitted that he was divorced, his wife having been unfaithful, and he gave the impression of being wealthy, although he rarely spoke of money or work. He had mentioned having helped negotiate the development of some oil-rich land in Cameroon, and that he had grown sympathetic to a local tribe, which had been displaced to a more remote, dry region because of that oil development. He also carried the title Lord Robert Somerville. Mrs. Murphy had received this information not from Robert but from a mutual friend of Gary Phelan, the realtor, who had boasted about his chumminess with the aristocracy. Apparently, Somerville had written him a cheque on a London bank as deposit for land near historic Fort Amherst. The personalized data on the check read “Robert Somerville, Lord of Briarsley, Cambridge.”

  This is starting to read like a Harlequin Romance novel, thought Anne, the not-so-smutty kind.

  Anne typed the last comment from her consultation: Somerville wants to rebuild an eastern Cameroon village, to make it self-sustaining, and to serve as a model for African reconstruction. He seeks $100,000 in charitable contributions, and says he will match, dollar for dollar from his personal funds, whatever can be raised locally.

  Anne entered a few more keystrokes, and the printer on a side table buzzed. She leaned back in her chair, locked the fingers of both hands behind her head, and stretched. Anne had to admit it. Frances Murphy’s concern had merit.

  The red flag may not be up, but it’s clipped to the halyard and fluttering, she thought. The elements of a scam are all there. If this guy is running a con, then he has to convince Mrs. Murphy of two things: that she really needs something and that he’s the only one that can supply it.

  What does she need? Well, she’s a widow. No doubt lonely. If she had close friends or family, she would have gone to them first, not to me. She’s a warm, kind woman, but she also has a kind of reserve which keeps would-be friends at a comfortable distance. Somerville seems to have breached that wall quite handily.

  And she’s wealthy. Not a need, really. But she seemed almost embarrassed by it. Maybe the dead Mr. Murphy acquired it by questionable methods. The money could be a burden. Hence the philanthropy obsession.

  And Somerville, if that’s his real name, is well on his way to becoming her kindred spirit. Maybe even the next Mr. Murphy. If nothing else, at least he has a great plan for spending a lot of her money… and that of her charitable friends as well.

  “This guy is a con. No doubt in my mind,” she said out loud, and somehow that seemed to make it more true. “Now I just have to prove it,” she added with disdain.

  The phone rang.

  “Oh! I’m sorry, baby.” She looked at her watch. It was nine-thirty. “I’ll be right there. Bye.”

  She shut down the office, bounded down the stairs and into the street. It was dark. Light from the street lamps cast soft shadows on the brick. She passed The Blue Peter. The last strains of a guitar and a rollicking Irish song faded into peals of laughter and shouts and hands clapping. She wondered if Dit and Ben were still there. She could guess what they might think, but she wondered what they would say when she told them that she was officially a private investigator.

  There was a lilt in her step as she rushed to her car.

  7

  “Good morning, Frances.”

  Frances Murphy looked surprised, and her surprise transformed itself into a bright smile.

  “I… I wasn’t expecting you,” she said. Her hand involuntarily rose to smooth down a curl of hair.

  Robert Somerville’s face shone softly in the morning light. He was simply but fastidiously dressed: polo shirt, sharply creased cotton trousers, leather belt with a family crest imprinted on its buckle. He had impeccable posture, yet always looked relaxed. Nothing about him, however, was more endearing to Frances than the warmth of his smile. It seemed to envelop her. It made her feel like a school girl. And that made her feel just a little bit afraid of him.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Frances. I thought I might tempt you to come for a walk along the boardwalk. It’s such a beautiful morning.”

  “I guess I’m not accustomed to spontaneity,” she said, “and I never thought of you British types as being so, either. But, yes, I think a walk is a wonderful idea. Give me a minute.”

  Robert Somerville waited outside the door for Frances to return. The Murphy home stood among many other stately wood frame residences near the harbour and west of the business district. The small enclave of streets which surrounded it had been, and still was, one of the finest areas of Olde Charlottetown. It had been home to several of the fathers of the Canadian Confederation, and it still possessed a quiet, distinguished air. Most of the homes were two-and-a-half storeys. Broad verandas overlooked the approaches, and carriage houses, now converted to garages, stood below fifty-foot elms and oaks. At one time, any important government office or significant place of commerce would have been only a ten-minute stroll.

  Victoria Park, too, was only a few minutes’ walk from Mrs. Murphy’s home. The park consisted of several patches of tennis courts, wooded groves, picnic areas, nature trails, and a boardwalk running along the shore of Charlottetown Harbour from Beaconsfield House to the lighthouse at Old Battery Point.

  Robert loved to talk, and Frances loved to listen to him. He spoke of London, where he lived, and of his ancestral home in Cambridge.
His accent was upper-class – posh, some would call it. Frances found it mellifluous and comforting.

  “What an extraordinary day!” he suddenly exclaimed with a sweep of his arm toward the bay. Two sailboats were making for the mouth of the harbour. The water was deep blue; a small cruiser cut a wake up the North River past the lighthouse on the point. “And such good company to share it with,” he added, taking Frances by the arm.

  “Good company? Why I couldn’t have inserted three words into your monologue with a garden fork. You do go on, you know. Not that I mind, of course.”

  “If not good company, then a good sport?”

  “That compliment I will gladly accept.”

  “By the way, have you had time to consider my proposal?” he asked.

  “You mean the project in Cameroon?”

  “Yes. I had planned to write the mission manager today. He’s experiencing some difficulties, and he would welcome some good news.”

  “What difficulties?”

  “Local corruption. The police in Douala insist upon special gratuities on whatever passes through the port. Charitable organizations are no exception. We’ve had little choice but to pay them. If we don’t, the supplies are damaged or they’re misdirected and disappear somewhere. Now, it seems, the cost of doing business with them has gone up.”

  “Such a cruel practice.”

  “That’s the way of the world in most of Africa, I’m afraid.”

  “I suppose it’s easy to blame them for adding to the misery in their own land. But I suspect that they’ve learned as much cunning from their old colonial masters as they have from their own kind. Who was it? The French?”

  “The French… and the Portuguese and the Germans. And I daresay even the British might have taken advantage if they weren’t so preoccupied with ‘civilizing’ elsewhere.”

  Robert guided Frances toward the edge of the boardwalk. A fat man wearing gym pants approached from the opposite direction. He led a tiny white dog with a pronounced underbite. The dog wandered into Frances’s path, and its leash tangled on her shoe.