The Hammett Hex

by Victoria Abbott

  I hoped we could work past our misunderstandings and different values, because I also knew the spark was there.

  “He is a cop, Kev, not a serial killer.”

  “Police officer. That says it all.”

  Kev’s point could have been made by any of my uncles. I was the first person in my large, larcenous family to take the path of honest work. My relatives had put a bit of a strain on my relationship with Smiley, but we had worked past it, mostly. It was my side that couldn’t trust a cop, even if he had left the job he loved and moved to the next police jurisdiction to avoid conflict of interest issues.

  I said, “Don’t worry.”

  Kev shrugged and reached for the maple syrup. “Be very careful is all I’m sayin’, Jordie. That’s the other side of the country and people get sucked out of planes all the time.”

  “For the record, Kev, people do not ‘get sucked out of planes all the time,’ and even if they did, which they do not, what would that have to do with Tyler Dekker?”

  “Like I said, he’s a cop.”

  There are some arguments that just go round and round. Most of Uncle Kev’s, for instance.

  Vera had upgraded her expression to a full-fledged scowl. She glanced up and met my eyes. “You are needed here, Miss Bingham. End of discussion.”

  I said, “Hold on a minute—”

  Vera whirled in her wheelchair. “Take it or leave it, Miss Bingham. Decide if you want the job. Or not.”

  I felt like I’d been slapped. Of course I wanted the job. I needed the job. I loved the job. But a week off without pay? That wasn’t asking much. What was wrong with her?

  I was pretty sure Vera was bluffing. Should I call that bluff? This position was the most important part of my plan to get back to grad school. With built-in food and accommodations and that chance to sell a few books on my own, I was able to save almost everything I made.

  Vera was spoiled and demanding; that must be obvious. She could have remembered that I had saved her life, her reputation and her books more than once. Maybe she thought she was being funny. She wasn’t always clear on the finer points of humor.

  I glanced at Kev and then back to Vera, but they were both gawking at the signora.

  Signora Panetone is tiny, round and black-clad with an unlikely ebony bun that looks like it’s been painted on her scalp. She will never see eighty again. At this moment she was hovering with a pale green platter and was just about to transfer a piece of French toast onto Vera’s plate. Getting food to our boss usually takes planning as Vera never willingly eats anything. The signora jerked back the platter, pivoted and walked away. Vera, Kev and I regarded her broad, black-garbed body lumbering toward the kitchen.

  Time ticked by as we sat there openmouthed. Such a thing had never happened in my time with Vera. The signora has worked at Van Alst House since Vera was a child. She is devoted. The door to the kitchen swung closed behind the wide black behind.

  We may have still been staring two minutes later. The signora emerged with two little red spots glowing on her wrinkled cheeks. Her hands were on her hips.

  “Ragazza viziata!” She turned and the door swung closed behind her again. I’d picked up a fair amount of Italian in my time at Van Alst House, but this was a new one. I thought it meant “spoiled brat.”

  A hush fell over the conservatory. I could hear Uncle Kev’s breathing. I’m pretty sure he was worried about losing his four or possibly five square meals a day if I got fired. Maybe he’d have to go too, losing out on all the food and the endless supply of Jolly Ranchers that Vera kept in the house for him.

  Still, I was thrilled by this unlikely ally. Unless I had misunderstood what had upset the signora, Vera had crossed a line. And, in fact, she had crossed a line. Not only was I a loyal employee, but I had also put my life on the line for Vera more than once and I deserved reasonable treatment. And I needed to seize the moment.

  “So,” I said, “back to my question. I’ll take the week off with no pay, if you’d like, or I’ll make up the time before or after the trip and take the pay. What will it be?”

  But Vera was watching the door. Could she have been nervous? Not possible. No history of that whatsoever.

  “The Hammett item takes precedence over everything, Miss Bingham.” Obviously, she was prepared to stick to her guns although I thought I heard a wobble in that gravelly voice. But I was also sticking to my guns. Smiley had bought nonrefundable tickets, which might not have been the most practical plan as he’d done it before I’d agreed. It was a big deal for him. San Francisco might have been a romantic city, but Smiley was such a fan of Sam Spade and the Continental Op that—oh, what was the matter with me?

  “Exactly,” I said, smiling triumphantly.

  “What are you jabbering about, Miss Bingham?” Vera said. She’d lost a bit of her fire when the signora stormed out.

  From the kitchen came a one-sided conversation in Italian.

  “Cattiva! Schifosa! Bruta!” What? Ugly? Wicked? Bad? Wow.

  The kitchen door swung open and the signora emerged, empty handed, arms crossing her round body. She gave Vera what is known around here as malocchio, the evil eye. I’d just never expected to see that directed at Vera. It suddenly occurred to me that Vera had learned her scowling from this unexpected teacher.

  They glared each other down. The musical score from High Noon hummed in my brain. Walter whimpered and pushed up against my leg. Good Cat and Bad Cat, the unpredictable and ever-present Siamese, were nowhere to be seen.

  “You let la povera raggaza go to vacation, Vera.”

  Generally, I wouldn’t like to be thought of as the “poor girl,” but these were desperate times.

  Uncle Kev’s baby blues almost popped out. I’m sure my own eyes were hovering in midair, like a frame out of Roger Rabbit.

  Vera opened her mouth slowly and ominously.

  This was not a light moment.

  I said in what I hoped was an up-tempo voice, “San Francisco was Hammett’s town, Vera. He’s a legend there, part of the culture. Surely that’s where we’ll find a signed first edition of Red Harvest, right there in Hammett’s old neighborhood. And with the shipping on someone else’s dime. It’s settled.”

  The signora viewed with me suspicion. Probably there was little she’d have understood in that sentence.

  Vera nodded slowly. You’d almost think she was grateful for my Hail Mary pass.

  The signora spoke. “Jordan needs vacation. She saved your life, Vera. You pay Jordan, Vera. Don’t take ’vantage.”

  Vera sputtered. Keeping face had always been important to the Van Alst family, and now there was only Vera to uphold the tradition. “Fine. Suit yourself, Fiammetta.”

  The signora’s black eyes shone victoriously. Her cheeks were flushed with triumph. She smoothed her vast floral apron like a general dusting off his epaulettes. I hoped I wasn’t dreaming.

  “Don’t let things get behind. I won’t tolerate that. Twelve hundred, tops. Negotiate. I’ll give you cash,” Vera muttered in my general direction. That sounded like the real Vera. I took her words to mean my vacation to San Francisco was a go and I would pay the price for it on my return.

  “That’s good then. I should go make arrangements.”

  “You know I can’t stand chirping, Miss Bingham.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I chirped.

  The signora emerged again with the French toast, and Uncle Kev reached happily forward with his plate. The signora beamed at him like he had just cured world hunger. Vera turned back to her crossword.

  Peace and harmony fell upon our land. Except I had not the slightest idea how I was going to get that signed first edition of Red Harvest. But you only live once. And I’d cross that golden gate when I came to it. I was going to San Francisco.

  Only one more mountain to climb before it was time to pack.
>
  CHAPTER TWO

  Don’t trust anyone except maybe family.

  —The Kelly Rules

  VERA WAS NOT the only obstacle to a blissful vacation and not even the main one. You can quit your job, but it would be hard to quit your family. There was still Uncle Mick to contend with. Fortunately Uncle Lucky was still in New York City with Karen. At least I wasn’t outnumbered.

  “But to think what he does for a living!” Uncle Mick moaned as he put the finishing touches (mustard) on fried baloney sandwiches, a specialty of the Kelly kitchen. He wiped his hands on his Kiss the Blarney Stone apron with the downward-pointing arrow. His ginger hair seemed to grow redder and his ginger eyebrows wilder.

  “He’s a police officer.”

  “Exactly, the police thing, and what does that tell you, my girl?”

  “It tells me I’ll be safe with him, among other things. Oh, and he probably won’t take my wallet while I’m sleeping.”

  Change of tactic from Uncle Mick. “What kind of family sends their boys to the police?”

  “First of all, Tyler is not a boy, and second, the same kind of family whose boys become . . .” In my family we call them independent business people or entrepreneurs.

  No way was I telling Uncle Mick that Tyler “Smiley” Dekker was estranged from his parents over becoming a police officer. I didn’t have the full story, but it seemed that being a cop was too big a step down the social ladder for them. Over time Uncle Mick might have been able to come to grips with the “police thing” but estranged from family? That would be a deal breaker.

  I bent forward and let stars shine in my eyes. “San Francisco was Uncle Seamus’s town. I’ve always wanted to visit.”

  Mick leaned back and grinned happily. “Ah, our boy Seamus, now there was a lad.”

  “I grew up on those stories! Remember?”

  “How could I ever forget our Seamus and his shenanigans?”

  “Remember when he ‘liberated’ the emerald and diamond choker from the twenty-sixth floor of that five-star hotel and he scrambled all the way around the building from balcony to balcony?” As a girl, I had imagined Uncle Seamus to be like Spiderman only with red, fuzzy eyebrows and a gold chain in his ginger chest hair.

  “And him afraid of heights! He was a scallywag!”

  A fool more like it, but now I was on a roll. “And wasn’t there some great story about a maid?”

  “Indeed, all the ladies loved our Seamus. He was like catnip to a calico.”

  “Was he?”

  “He always got away right under the noses of the police.”

  “How did he do that?” Of course, I could have told this and a dozen other Uncle Seamus stories myself without any prompting, but it was more fun this way.

  “Talked the silly girl right out of her uniform, he did, and wheeled the cart down the hallway. The po-lice even checked in the cart to see if anything was hidden and they still didn’t notice it was him pushing it.”

  “They couldn’t have been trying very hard if they didn’t spot he was a man, Uncle Mick.”

  “Indeed, our Seamus was always a bit delicate in appearance, had to be small and agile in his line of work. And anyway, he knew the cops wouldn’t even give a second look to that poor girl. No one sees past a uniform. You should know that.”

  “And I suppose he didn’t have a five o’clock shadow.”

  “Scrupulously groomed at all times was Seamus.” He paused, probably wondering if he should say, “Rest his soul.” We’d never been sure of what happened to Uncle Seamus in the aftermath of a heist that involved a diamond necklace belonging to the second girlfriend of a minor mobster named Les “the Bat” Blatt, known for his interrogation techniques with an aluminum baseball bat. We often say “rest his soul” in this family, but when it comes to Seamus, we go silent.

  “And the maid, what do you think she did without her uniform?”

  “What any sensible female would do! Took some clothing from the room she was cleaning and walked right outta there.”

  Not everyone lived by the rules of the Kelly family. I hoped the chambermaid in the story wasn’t made to pay for her mistake.

  Uncle Mick was on a roll now.

  “So you see,” I said, “this trip would be like a pilgrimage for me.”

  Before I left, he had me doubled over retelling the famous story of Uncle Seamus, his pockets stuffed with cash, racing through a hotel kitchen, flinging pots of water behind him to slip up his pursuers. Being Seamus, he managed to score an excellent meal on his way to freedom. In some versions it was a plate of caviar, but in this one, it was a chateaubriand for two and a bottle of brandy.

  I changed the topic briefly on my way out. “Vera needs me to get a copy of Red Harvest in San Francisco.”

  “And that’s a book?”

  “Bingo. It’s a book by Dashiell Hammett.”

  “Why can’t you get it here?”

  “Well, it’s an old book and she wants a first edition signed by the author. And she wants it from his old haunt of San Francisco. It’s not my type of reading but she claims it was an important piece, the transition of a genre from pulp into mainstream and I quote, ‘The absurd violence seems to captivate people of a lower distinction.’”

  Mick shook his lionlike mane. “You must admit that thing for these old books is awful weird, my girl.”

  “It’s the way I make my living, Uncle Mick. I can’t bad-mouth her.”

  “Good for you. No one else in Harrison Falls can stand the woman.”

  And that wasn’t entirely fair to Vera, the sins of the fathers and all that. “So I wonder if you have any connections in San Francisco that might help me to find a copy.”

  “Through unorthodox channels, you mean?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “Through regular legitimate business people only. I wondered if you knew someone who is familiar with the rare book community there. I’d be grateful if you had a lead.”

  “Well, there might be someone. Leave it with me, my girl, and I’ll keep you posted.”

  Of course, I was capable of tracking down that copy, but now Uncle Mick’s mind was off Tyler and his family for the time being. He had a project. And I was good to go.

  * * *

  SOMETIMES YOUR FRIENDS can be tougher than your family. My two best friends, Tiffany Tibeaut, currently on a nursing gig in the nearby town of Grandville, and Lance DeWitt, reference librarian and heartthrob at the Harrison Falls Public Library, both felt entitled to opinions on this and, in fact, all aspects of my life.

  Tiff’s text kicked off with an emoji of an engagement ring and an instruction. Don’t get pressured into it. It’s a huge step.

  Really, Tiff? Pressured into it? Whatever you can say about Tyler Dekker, he had never pressured me. For sure, he’d hung around, causing great anxiety in the uncle sector, but he wasn’t pushy except for that time he arrested me. He was relaxed, if you didn’t count the occasions where he thought I was mixed up in something criminal. All misunderstandings, currently cleared up.

  Tiff was not alone in her disapproval.

  Lance was having none of it when I dropped by the Harrison Falls Library reference department to share my exciting plans. I waited in a lineup of Lance’s octogenarian regulars to get my turn. As usual, he was drop-dead gorgeous and I was not the only person who thought that. As I waited patiently, I wondered what would have happened if my old buddy relationship with Lance had ever progressed past the crying on each other’s shoulders to something more serious. I shook my head. Now Smiley was the man in my life, and Lance was one of my two best friends.

  It started off well enough. “Hey, beautiful lady,” he said, smiling that ultra-white smile of his. Lance looks like a movie star and sounds like a matinee idol from the forties. I broke the news to him before Tiff did.

  “San Francisco? With Dekker? Are you
out of your mind? What do you really know about this guy, Jordan?”

  “Be serious.”

  “Excuse me, young woman, but other people need to talk to the librarian too, you know.”

  I knew better than to argue with any of Lance’s posse. Lance took me by the elbow and led me out of the reference room and along the hallway to the safety of the staff room.

  “You’ve had some betrayals and a lot of serious and dangerous events in the last couple of years.”

  “True, but—”

  “Just sayin’, take your time. Who knows what his motivations could be?”

  My voice rose to an unappealing squeak. “Right. What motivations could he have for taking me to San Francisco, Lance? Couldn’t he betray me in a less expensive way by staying home? It’s a ridiculous allegation, which, by the way, is also light on detail.”

  He shrugged. “Your family, maybe.”

  “What do you mean?” I lowered my voice to a whisper as one of Lance’s colleagues had come into the room.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t realize you were here.”

  “No problem at all. I was just leaving.”

  Back in the hallway, Lance caught up to me and put his arms around me. “Don’t be mad. But you are a route into relatives and their secrets—not that I know anything about them and those secrets—and he is an ambitious police officer. Just be sure you know what you’re getting into. I’m your friend, beautiful lady, and I don’t say this lightly.”

  “You say everything lightly.”

  But although I laughed, Lance’s words stayed with me, even when I reached San Francisco with Tyler.

  * * *

  DASHIELL HAMMETT WAS known for a lot of things, relationship counseling not among them. Smiley and I had embarked on a cross-country trip with two flight changes and a three-hour time difference. We had never been anywhere together before, if you didn’t count being trapped in a locked cellar in a burning building, facing down several killers or otherwise staring death in the face, but this isn’t the time to talk about that. Sure, we knew all about stress, but we didn’t know how to take a vacation as a couple.