“Oh...” replied Nancy, pulling away. “This is a bookstore?”
“It sure is!” replied Dorothy, her bird-like visage narrowing into a predatory smile. “The finest in Tanglewood. We've got all kinds, and as it happens we're running a sale right now.” She turned, motioning animatedly at a portly man standing behind the counter. “Richard, dear, we have a customer! What are you doing, idling over there? Aren't you going to fill her in on the day's sales?”
This man, Richard, was scarcely Nancy's own five-foot-five, though he had easily twice her width. It seemed that he was Dorothy's husband, and he wore about him the beat-down, henpecked look on his face that one might expect from having been leashed to such a woman. Leaving his post, he shuffled towards the others in uncomfortable silence and straightened the brown newsboy cap on his head. “W-Welcome to Page Turners, ma'am. Today's sales are largely in the romance category. We've got the new—”
“Sorry, I'm not here for that,” inserted Nancy, taking a step back. “I'm here for a detective.”
Dorothy glanced sharply at her husband and snapped her fingers. “Detective fiction? You've got it. Darling, show our customer to the mystery and thriller section, won't you? I think she'll find it well-stocked. Most of our titles are gently-used, and we sell them at the most reasonable prices.”
Before Richard could lead her off, Nancy interrupted again. “No, sorry, you've misunderstood.” She pulled the newspaper clipping out of her pocket, holding it out for the two of them to read. “I'm looking for an actual detective. I've got his ad from the paper here, see? His name is Harlan Ulrich?”
At Nancy's utterance of that name, all the energy was sapped from the air, and from the face of the bird-faced woman. Dorothy frowned suddenly, as if recoiling at it, and stalked back towards the counter. “Oh. I see. You're here to see him. Well, he's upstairs.”
Richard, chuckling, nodded towards the back of the store, to a metal door marked STAIRS. “Sorry about that. We're all books down here, but if you go upstairs you should be able to find him.”
“Ah, OK. Thanks,” replied Nancy, stepping past him and making a beeline for the stairs. She left the stacks behind, pushed open the squeaky door and started into a dim stairwell. Climbing up concrete steps, she arrived at the second floor and stepped out into a carpeted hallway. A little ways to the right, she found a large office space. Seeing that the door was open, she adjusted her blouse and stepped inside, waving at the girl who sat at the desk nearest the entrance.
“Hi, how can I help you?” asked the girl, looking up from a bulky computer monitor. She had a thin face that was dominated by large, clear eyes. Her black hair, silky and straight, was cut in a long bob, and the navy dress she wore fit her stick-thin frame rather clumsily. The name tag pinned to her breast read EMMA.
“Yes, I'm here to speak with the detective? Harlan Ulrich?” replied Nancy.
It took Emma a few seconds to process this. Then, nodding, the girl offered a polite smile. “Ah, I see. Sorry about that. He doesn't work here—not on this floor, anyhow. This floor is occupied by the Gore Accounting Firm.”
“Oh, I see...” Nancy looked back through the open door, into the hall.
“Have you tried looking for him upstairs?” continued Emma, toying with a black ballpoint pen. She tucked it behind one ear and leaned forward as she asked the question.
“Upstairs?” Nancy glanced up at the ceiling.
“His office is on the third floor. You just go up the stairs and hang a right. Can't miss it—it's a dead-end.” The phone on Emma's desk began to ring shrilly.
At that same instant, from an adjacent room, a man began to shout. “Emma, did you finish the Peterson invoice yet? That's him on the line and I'm tired of putting him off. Is it done? It better be, otherwise you're going to be in deep.”
“Er... yes, Mr. Gore. I've finished it. Don't worry, I'll take the call.” Smiling weakly, Emma nodded at the ringing phone and then swiveled in her chair to pick it up.
Nancy left the accounting offices and returned to the stairwell, climbing yet another flight. The higher one went in the building, the warmer it got. The air in the uppermost landing of the stairwell was incredibly stuffy, and as she exited into the third level, she found the climate didn't much improve. She tugged at the collar of her blouse and fanned herself ineffectually with her hand. Clearing a few light brown locks from her sweaty brow, she hooked a right, just as Emma had instructed, and found herself at a dead-end in the hallway.
There was, in fact, a door at the end of this hall, and it sat ajar.
But where it led, by her estimation, was not an office.
The door at the end of the hall led to what appeared to be a small stockroom. A flimsy chipboard desk had been set up at its center, and numerous canisters of paint, bottles of cleaning solutions and more were heaped into piles all around it, along with stacks of printer paper and boxes of toner.
A man in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up past the elbows and a black tie sat behind said desk, staring down at something intently. His unshaven face was covered in a sheen of perspiration. Despite this, he held a small thermos filled with what looked to be—and smelled like—steaming coffee. In his other hand, drumming out a staccato beat against a nearby box of urinal cakes, was a pencil.
Nancy cleared her throat and eased the door open just a touch, hoping to catch the man's attention.
She managed to do so—for an instant.
The man at the desk glanced up at her, eyes narrow. His lips curled in a quiet snarl. Then, he looked back down at his desk. That was all the response he was willing to give.
It wasn't until she stepped into the room and spoke that she got something of an answer from the man. “E-Excuse me,” she stammered, “Are you, by chance, Harlan Ulrich? The private investigator?” Waiting for the man's reply, she noticed what he was staring at. On the desk before him was a page of the day's newspaper—the daily crossword puzzle. The way he was staring down at it, jaw tensed, you'd have thought him defusing a bomb.
The man grunted, then replied, “Not for another five minutes.” He tapped his wristwatch. “Lunch break.” He took a slurp from the thermos and set it down on a stack of printer paper, tugging furiously at the soggy neckline of his shirt.
“Er...” Nancy hovered at the threshold, unsure of how to proceed. Surely this man—this detective—wasn't really so brusque with his potential clients? And what was he doing, sitting in this hot room—no, this glorified supply closet? Was this all some kind of joke, a put-on? “Look, I... I came today because I saw your ad in the paper and I've got—”
As if to interrupt her, Harlan Ulrich cleared his throat. Sniffing at the hot air, he stretched and looked up at the high-set windows near the ceiling, where a faint grey glow trickled in. Light was a rare commodity here; aside from the meager natural light, the “office” contained only a small electric lamp which dangled precariously from a nearby outlet. The result left much of the room buried in perpetual dusk.
Finally, picking up the newsprint, he leveled a steely gaze upon her. “I need a word. Eleven letters. The clue is 'bequeathal'. Any thoughts?”
Nancy laughed caustically, let her purse slip over the ridge of her shoulder and nearly hit the floor. “Are you serious?”
Ulrich blinked at her expectantly.
“Uh...” Licking her lips, Nancy gave the matter a little thought. “Eleven letters... bequeathal.” With a shrug, she asked, “Have you tried 'inheritance'?”
Ulrich leaned over his crossword and counted out the squares. Then, noticeably brightening, he began to fill in each letter. “Inheritance, of course. That's brilliant.”
“Glad I could help,” said Nancy, tugging on her purse strap and taking another step into the makeshift office. “Now, this isn't really what I expected, but...”
“Please,” said Ulrich, folding the newsprint and tucking it under one sweaty arm, “come in. Make yourself at home.” He was seated on a small stool with metal legs. The onl
y other seat in the room was a metal folding chair, but it was weighed down with bottles of hand sanitizer and other supplies that the businesses downstairs hadn't gotten around to sorting yet. Knocking these to the floor, Ulrich offered this chair to the client, explaining, “Sorry, it's a bit of a mess. I only just moved in here about a week ago. Still getting situated. They're packrats in this building—lots of clutter.”
“Of course...” Nancy lowered herself into the chair—which creaked awfully even at her slight weight—and crossed her legs.
“So,” began Ulrich, taking a pull from his thermos, “you're in need of a detective. How may I be of service?”
That afternoon, Nancy Pruitt had certainly thought herself in need of a private eye.
Now that she'd come all this way and met one, she was no longer sure.
3
“So, you're new in town?” asked Nancy, trying not to look shocked or offended at the disorder.
“That's right. I've been in town something like ten days, as a matter of fact,” replied the detective. Fanning himself with the soggy newsprint, he ran a hand across his stubbled cheek and stood to his full height—a modest bit over six feet.
“Where are you from?”
“Toledo,” was his reply, and there was something vaguely wistful in his dark, brown eyes as he said it. “You know, mid-sized city, about a hundred miles from here.”
“Toledo? I know it,” she said. “Why'd you come here? Get tired of the place?”
Harlan Ulrich gave a funny shake of the head, and in so doing a bit of his sweat-slick salt n' pepper hair tumbled across his brow. “No, I loved it. But you know how things are. The PI business out that way... well, it's a crowded field. And the rents, too, were getting mighty expensive—outrageous, really. I find that Tanglewood just suits me better on most fronts.”
“I see.” She couldn't help glancing around the room, nose crinkling in disgust. “So, you're really going to work out of... here?”
He dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand. “Oh, I know how it looks, but it'll come together soon enough.” He paused, looking down at his side and nudging something with his foot.
That was when she first noticed it.
Leaning forward and peering into a cardboard box filled with shredded paper, Nancy asked, “Is... Is that a cat?”
Blinking up at her languidly from beneath the edge of the desk, half-buried in paper, was a tortoiseshell cat. It stretched in its makeshift bed, knocking a few tendrils of shredded print to the dusty floor.
“Ah, yes, this is my associate, Beardsley,” replied the detective. “The real brains behind the operation.” He paused for comedic effect and then laughed contentedly at his own joke. Tapping the box with the tip of his dress shoe, he added, “I'm just kidding. He's a Toledo transplant, too, and his only purpose in life is eating me out of house and home.”
“Right...” She watched the cat flop onto its side, nuzzling deeper into the sea of paper with a purr until its orange and black bulk had nearly disappeared beneath the surface.
“Anyhow, enough about me,” said Ulrich, cracking his knuckles and taking a yellow legal pad from his desk drawer. Plucking the cap from a new pen, he cocked his head to the side and asked, “What is it you need a private investigator for, Miss...?”
“Nancy. My name is Nancy Pruitt, and I'm here because...” Suddenly, she was at a loss for words. Somehow, she'd envisioned the detective, the whole process, somewhat differently—more The Maltese Falcon and less an episode of Hoarders. After some hesitation, she eventually managed, “Well, truth is, I'm being harassed by someone—stalked, I think.”
Ulrich smoothed out one of his brows with an outstretched pinky finger and then wrote the word STALKER in large capitals across the top of the clean page. “You've got a stalker, have you?”
Nancy gave a faint nod. “I think that's the best way to put it. Someone has been making their way onto my property for the past few nights and has been tapping at my bedroom window. Then, last night, they made it inside. I've had it and want something done, so... I've come to you.”
“I understand,” was the detective's reply. “But, before we proceed, I need to ask—have you gotten law enforcement involved? Usually, that's the first step in cases like these.”
“I did,” she said. “On two occasions I've called the sheriff's deputy to come and scope things out. Each time, though, he's gotten there too late and hasn't found anything. Last night, the prowler managed to get into my home, but neither I nor the deputy could find any sign of them on my property. Deputy Marc must think I'm going senile, so... I figured I'd come to someone like you. The police out here don't have the staff to give me special treatment. They can't stake out my property all night and wait for this creep to come around.”
“All right, then,” said Ulrich, leaning back on his stool and palming the sweat from his face, “what does this individual look like?”
“Erm...” Nancy spared a nervous smile. “Well, actually, I'm not sure. I haven't gotten a good look at them. You see, they carry around this red umbrella. And they come around the same time each night—close to midnight.” Searching for other salient details she might provide to aid the detective in her case, she produced only a shrug. “I'm sorry. If I knew who was behind it I'd have sent the cops after them. I don't know who it is and they haven't left behind any great clues.”
Ulrich frowned, staring down at his legal pad for a beat, disappointed that he had nothing else to jot down after “red umbrella”. Waste of a clean page, he thought. He bit down on the back of his pen and let out a deep sigh. “Right. Tell me, is there anyone in your life that you suspect could be behind this? Anyone who might hold a grudge? And what, specifically, has this individual done on your property? Have they stolen or damaged anything?”
Nancy tugged at the threadbare knees of her jeans. “My life isn't really that exciting,” she admitted with a chuckle. “I own the only pawn shop here in town and have done honest business for going on twenty-five years. I don't think I have anyone I could call an 'enemy' in that sense—certainly no one angry enough at me to pull this kind of stunt. And, no, they haven't stolen or damaged any of my property. At least, as far as I know. I haven't found anything missing or broken—they only seem interested in menacing me. They come up to the window, tap on it awhile. Last night, they got inside, but seemingly vanished in a puff of smoke before the deputy could find them.”
“So, you believe they entered the premises, but you didn't see them inside?”
“That's right.”
The detective pulled at his double windsor. “And the cop who came by didn't see them, either?”
“No, he didn't. Not last night. Same thing the night before.”
Ulrich grit his teeth, and as he returned to his legal pad, he read out the notes he was making with a furrowed brow. “So... We don't have a suspect, a motive, any evidence... and they haven't done anything, either. All you know is that they carry a red umbrella?” He gave a wry laugh, dropping the pen and pad onto his desk and taking a pull from his thermos. “Is that about the size of it?”
Nancy nodded sheepishly.
“Wonderful. Now, taking all of that into account, I just need to know one last thing.”
“Sure, what?”
He brandished a cruel sneer, chin resting in both palms. “How do you expect me to catch them?”
“I thought that maybe you'd come by the house tonight and wait,” she replied flatly. “Track their movements, get a picture of them, something like that.”
The detective grunted, putting the pen back into his mouth and locking his molars around the plastic barrel to keep from exploding at her. He realized at that moment that he didn't care to take this job—that there was nothing alluring in it—but had some trouble in forming a kind refusal.
Let's see, he thought, I could take this case and spend the night cramped in my front seat, fighting sleep. I could stare at her house till sunrise, searching for some loiterer whose face sh
e can't even describe—or who might not even exist. Alternatively, I can stay home and watch a movie with the cat. It wasn't rocket science. Yeah, I'm thinking this lady can go—
“I apologize,” replied Ulrich when he'd gotten hold of a happy face, “but I don't think this case would be a good fit for me. There isn't quite enough to go off of, you see, and what's more, this sort of work—the tracking down stalkers, apprehending people—really isn't my specialty. I wouldn't be comfortable with it. I'm sorry about that.”
“I-I see,” she replied. His refusal had apparently been unexpected, and it was obvious she didn't have a back-up planned. She listed to one side, deflated. “Are you sure? I mean, I don't expect you to tackle anyone, just—”
Ulrich loosed a loud, interrupting laugh and stood, sidestepping his way around mounds of junk towards the door, which he carefully opened. “Really, it's not a good fit. Some detectives specialize in that sort of work, but for me, well, I've always been averse to confrontation.”
Nancy grabbed up her purse and looked to the open door, slowly gaining her feet. “W-Well, I...” She shuffled to the threshold, pleading with her gaze. “I don't feel safe at home,” she continued. “Is there any advice you could give me? Or, anyone else you could refer me to—a PI around here that does this sort of work?”
“Afraid not,” replied Ulrich, ushering her out into the hall. “I haven't been in town long enough to make those kinds of recommendations. As to advice, well, leave a light on outside, consider getting a dog and make sure to lock your doors and windows. That should do the trick.”
“But I do lock my doors!” Nancy insisted.
“Mm, of course, but do you use the proper technique?” asked Ulrich, stepping back into the office and softly closing the door on her. “Observe,” he said from the other side, and he loudly engaged the door's lock. The sound of his shuffling back to the desk could be heard soon thereafter.
Overtaken by dismay, Nancy sulked down the hall, descended the stairs and wandered out of the Otterbein building. “Great. Now what will I do?” she asked, pausing outside and looking up at the narrow windows along the third floor.
Deep Night Page 2
