by K. K. Beck
THE MYSTERIOUS PRESS
Published by Warner Books
A Time Warner Company
A HOPELESS CASE. Copyright © 1992 by K.K. Beck. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
For information address Hachette Book Group USA, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017.
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A Time Warner Company
ISBN: 978-0-7595-2431-6
A hardcover edition of this book was published in 1992 by Mysterious Press.
First eBook Edition: May 2001
Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
PRAISE FOR
K. K. BECK
AND
A HOPELESS CASE
“A good, clean writer with an eye for apt description, Beck has created a breezy and modern detective. . . . Offers a neat twist as a premise for what could turn out to be a delightful series.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[Beck’s] Jane da Silva is the kind of woman you wouldn’t mind having a long cup of coffee with on a rainy day.”
—Wisconsin State Journal
“I enjoyed the book considerably. I really liked [Beck’s] style, and the way she moved the story along. Jane da Silva is a likable, believable heroine, and the rest of the characters came alive. . . . I’d enjoy another.”
—Mystery News
“A fun and entertaining read. . . . Beck has an interesting style that is slightly comic but wholly interesting.”
—Greeley Tribune, KS
“By cleverly presenting so many different aspects of the mystery, Beck keeps her readers surprised, tantalized and entertained.”
—Twentieth Century Crime & Mystery Writers
“The work of an elegant crafter. . . . Beck is a mystery writer with a splendid gift for spinning out a story that catches up the reader with a mesmerizing fascination for plot and character that stands her in the company of the Agatha Christies and Conan Doyles of the mystery tradition.”
—Midwest Book Review
“[Beck is] very much like Agatha Christie, with some touches that go all the way back to Conan Doyle.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A charming story. . . . Jane da Silva’s character is made up of just the right proportions of cynicism, good humor, avarice, determination and resourcefulness.”
—Denver Post
For Molly Friedrich with thanks
Chapter 1
Jane wondered if she looked as stupid as she felt. She was slouching in front of a piano, one hand wrapped languorously around a microphone, in a tall, narrow house built in 1688 and overlooking a canal in Amsterdam, now serving as a restaurant with a smoky little bar on the first floor.
She shook out her brown hair, a practiced movement that also emphasized the way her dress curved around her breasts and hips. Then there was the studied bow of the head and the flexing of the mike cord, as if she were composing herself, before a brief nod to her accompanist. All these moves, which she had picked up from old movies since girlhood, and which she had once found reasonably amusing to execute, now seemed hopelessly corny. Maybe even—although she suppressed the thought —a little pathetic.
Jane, who felt that she had been born into an age glaringly devoid of charm and elegance, had tried to make her act a gentle homage to a classier era. But perhaps, she was beginning to think, it was just shabbily retro.
She was pleased to see that the preppy American, with whom she had established meaningful eye contact in the past, was here again tonight, but this time without his friends. She tilted her head back lazily, then brought it forward again, timed so her face ended up level with the microphone just as she began to sing in a husky but melodious voice, giving a world-weary air to “Just One of Those Things.”
The noise level in the bar lowered briefly, but, she noted with irritation, rose again as she plunged through the lyrics. Fortunately, however, an exuberant female shriek from the corner of the room drowned her out when she went flat on “a trip to the moon on gossamer wings.”
She glanced at the American. He seemed to be watching her with appreciation, and even glared menacingly at some noisy people at a table nearby. She rewarded him with lowered eyelids and the merest suggestion of a smile. He was rather attractive, with wavy hair, intelligent eyes, an athletic body. He looked younger than Jane. Lately, a lot of the attractive men around her looked younger.
It had come to that rather sooner than she had expected it would. If she hadn’t been in mid-phrase, Jane would have sighed wistfully. He wore a Brooks Brothers summer suit, and a tie with little blips on it, which she hoped were not mallard ducks in flight. Moneyed, traditional East Coast Americans, if they were the hearty, expansive, check-grabbing type who chummed up to headwaiters and sang along at the opera, were okay. But she had a West Coast aversion to wardrobes that looked as if they were assembled primarily from Maine catalogs.
Really, she admonished herself, I must stop this tacky habit of flirting with the customers. If I don’t look out, I’ll turn into some predatory old harridan, leering at wholesome young American boys. She transferred her gaze from the man in the Brooks Brothers suit to an Amstel beer poster on the opposite wall.
When the song ended, she turned briefly to her accompanist, an irritable conservatory student with bad skin and an unwieldy Dutch name, Bouwdewijn Overdijk. He was giving her a nasty sneer, no doubt because she’d gone flat. Big deal. She could still sell a song, even if she wasn’t always on key. And his timing was rotten anyway. Europeans couldn’t syncopate worth a damn, no matter how musical they were. When she’d brought that up earlier in the evening, he’d had the nerve to tell her he thought the pewter dress she was wearing looked a bit tarty.
In the past, she might have laughed that off. Tonight, however, she was annoyed. She’d been annoyed a lot lately. Restless, impatient, and annoyed. In an act of defiance, Jane ended her set with “Begin the Beguine,” just to aggravate Bouwdewijn. He could never get the rhythm right, and he knew it. And what the hell, she thought, why shouldn’t I flirt with the customers? She gazed soulfully for a second too long at the young American, and raised one eyebrow, so she wasn’t surprised when, after she’d finished to scattered applause, he approached her. He was probably going to ask her if he could buy her a drink. It might be nice to talk to an American for a while.
“Excuse me,” he said eagerly. “Mrs. da Silva?”
She was curious. He’d called her “Mrs” Her framed black-and-white photograph on the sidewalk, at street level above the rather sinister stone stairs that led to this basement, just said “Jane da Silva.” He must know who she was.
He pressed a card into her hand. “Hamilton Carruthers
. From the embassy.”
She looked down at the card. “Cultural section?”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t tell me you’re asking me to lay off Cole Porter in the interests of the exportation of American culture,” she said with a sideways smile. She examined his tie. The little blips were crossed squash rackets, which probably meant he was in pretty good shape.
“I’m crazy about Cole Porter,” he said, smiling. “And, frankly, Mrs. da Silva, I think you do him credit. No, I’m here because they’re looking for you at the embassy. And while it’s not exactly in my line, I volunteered to come find you.”
“Oh,” she said, casting a nervous eye on Bouwdewijn, who was shuffling through his sheet music in a surly way and scowling at her. He hated it when the customers came up and spoke to her, neglecting him.
“I knew who you were because I’ve been here before,” Hamilton Carruthers continued. “I’m kind of a fan, actually. Perhaps you remember me,” he added, raising an eyebrow.
“Perhaps I do,” she said, giving him a level gaze. “Why are you looking for me at the embassy?” Maybe they wanted her to sing at some function. She hoped it wasn’t the damned IRS again.
He clasped his hands together. “You have a message from home.”
“From home?” With a start, she realized she didn’t really have a home. She hadn’t had one for years.
“From Seattle,” he said.
“But I haven’t lived there since I went on my junior year abroad,” she said. “I’ve hardly ever been back.” The last time had been for her cousin’s wedding.
“You are from Seattle. You must be the right Jane da Silva. Seattle’s a great town, they say.”
“It’s okay,” Jane said cautiously. “I understand it’s become kind of fashionable lately.”
“Let’s sit down and have a drink,” Hamilton Carruthers suggested. “I’ll explain everything.”
He ushered her to his table and she asked for a cognac.
“They had a hard time finding you,” Hamilton Carruthers said. “You’re supposed to register with the embassy or consulate when you’re abroad.”
She waved her hand impatiently. “I know, but I travel a lot.”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you,” he said, now assuming a grave air, “that your uncle is dead.” Hamilton Carruthers was, apparently, the genuine article—a true gentleman diplomat. No lower-middle-class “passed away” for him.
“Uncle Harold?” she said, her eyes widening.
“Yes. I have a letter here from a firm of lawyers in Seattle. They’ve been trying to track you down for weeks.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope.
Jane took a sip of her cognac and opened it. “Poor Uncle Harold,” she said. “He was such a nice man. Kind of a do-gooder type.” She found herself misting up just a little. Uncle Harold had been a nice man. Suddenly, she felt very melancholy. “He always liked me,” she said, sniffing.
“I am so sorry,” said Hamilton Carruthers, handing her an immaculate handkerchief as a tear rolled through her mascara and smudgily onto her cheek.
“Thank you. I’ll be all right in a second. I haven’t seen the old boy in years. We wrote, though.”
He patted her hand. “It’s difficult when one is abroad,” he said.
She blew her nose. “Well, I wonder what the lawyers have to say. Maybe he left me a little something.” She cheered up somewhat at this thought. God knows she could use a little something right now.
The letter was quite short.
Dear Mrs. da Silva,
Your uncle, the late Harold Mortensen, has named you in his will to continue his life’s work by means of a testamentary trust. If you carry out the work of the trust to the satisfaction of the trustees, you will receive an income during your lifetime, for as long as you satisfy the requirements laid out by your uncle.
The nature of your duties is sufficiently complex that I think it preferable that you meet with the trustees personally to learn of the exact nature and scope of the work.
If you are not willing to undertake the tasks outlined for you, the trust will be terminated and the assets distributed to charities named by your uncle.
Please contact us at your earliest convenience to discuss this matter.
Sincerely,
George W. Montcrieff
“How bizarre,” said Jane.
Hamilton Carruthers coughed delicately, and gazed into his own cognac. It was clear he was too well bred to ask about the letter, but it was also clear that he wished she would confide in him.
She thought she might as well. After all, a certain degree of intimacy had been established by her snuffling into his handkerchief. She reflected briefly that she must remember to launder it properly and mail it to the embassy at The Hague.
“My uncle Harold’s left me his money,” she said. “But it sounds like I have to run his weird enterprise. It was always very mysterious, and everybody kidded Uncle Harold about it. My mother used to call it the Bureau of Hopeless Cases. But he called it the Foundation for Righting Wrongs.”
Hamilton Carruthers’s eyebrows rose.
“I know,” she said. “It does sound a little ambitious, doesn’t it? It was sort of a nonprofit detective agency. He had a grim little office in the Arctic Building, I remember,” Jane continued. “A big old building with marble walrus heads decorating the outside.
“When I grew up I assumed it was some kind of a tax dodge.” She frowned. “But Uncle Harold, I realize now, wouldn’t have dodged his taxes. He was a real straight shooter.”
“Do you want to do it?” said Hamilton Carruthers. “Right wrongs?”
“It might be fun,” she answered.
“I love your singing,” Hamilton Carruthers said suddenly. “How long have you been performing? Why aren’t you famous?”
Jane laughed. “Probably because I’m not good enough,” she said. “It started as sort of a joke. I was at a party in Brussels and I had a few drinks and sang ‘Ten Cents a Dance,’ and someone offered me a job. That was five years ago.”
“I sort of assumed you’d always been a singer,” Hamilton said.
“No. Just another splotch on my résumé,” said Jane. She had been a governess, a hand model, a simultaneous translator (which gave her migraines), an aerobics instructor (which gave her shin splints), the editor of a shopping guide for tourists in Rome, and part owner of a small shop that sold baskets, sachets, and paperweights and folded in six months.
“To tell you the truth, I’ve been feeling rather sorry for myself, and put out with myself too, for having led such a raffish life when I am basically a very sensible person.” She didn’t add that she would be forty in three years, and on her thirty-seventh birthday she had made a vow not to be broke anymore after forty.
“And then this comes along. Uncle Harold. It’s really kind of overwhelming.” She sighed. “It’s nice to talk to an American. You can get all personal and tell everything, and it doesn’t make them nervous. I miss that sometimes.”
“And your dress matches your eyes,” Hamilton said.
“I know,” said Jane, too preoccupied to take much notice of his non sequitur. “I planned it that way. I hate to break it to you, Hamilton, but all that kind of stuff is planned.”
She paused. “The Bureau of Hopeless Cases,” she said slowly. “Of course it depends on how much money there is, too.”
Chapter 2
Exactly how much money are we talking about?” Jane, wearing a Chanel suit Bernardo had given her years ago, was sitting opposite George Montcrieff, an elegant, elderly gentleman and a senior partner in the firm of Carlson, Throckmorton, Osgood, Stubbins, and Montcrieff. Jane hoped she looked like a deserving heiress.
She was talking not so much to Mr. Montcrieff as at him. He seemed preoccupied, gazing out of the window in the long pauses between his sentences.
“Mmmm,” he replied. “There is a great deal of money at stake here.” He clammed up again and st
ared out of the window some more.
Jane had been startled by the number of high-rise buildings that had sprung up in Seattle since her last visit ten years ago. This one, a looming tower of black glass, had a magnificent view out over Puget Sound to Bainbridge Island, dark with Douglas firs. A green-and-white Washington State ferry cut through the blue-gray water, leaving a ruffled white wake.
“Fantastic view,” said Jane. “I had forgotten what a beautiful city this is. You were saying, Mr. Montcrieff?”
“A lot of money.” His gaze drifted back to her. “Your uncle left his affairs in a very strange state, if I do say so,” he said, frowning as if it were somehow her fault. “Quite unorthodox. But he was adamant. Absolutely refused to set up a purely charitable trust. Said he didn’t want the state attorney general or the IRS poking around. It left him in horrible shape, tax-wise. But he had plenty of cash, so he forked it out when he wrote the will. Still, the whole thing is peculiar.” He eyed her as if she didn’t deserve one dime of Uncle Harold’s money, and as if the government would probably confiscate the whole estate anyway because Uncle Harold was so eccentric.
“Well,” Jane replied tartly, “it is my understanding that you drew up the will, so I am sure you will agree that it is a perfectly sound document. I would like a copy, by the way.”
“Of course,” he said, placing his fingertips together. “Harold quaintly called his enterprise the Foundation for Righting Wrongs.
“Its chief asset was Harold and his desire to set things right. But there is also the house. You knew about his house? Under the will you may live there as long as you want if you are doing the work of the Foundation for Righting Wrongs. If you fail, the trustees will expect you to vacate within thirty days. Of course, it’s only yours during your lifetime.
“You do understand, Mrs. da Silva, that you are perfectly free to choose not to carry on your uncle’s, er, work. In that case, I’ll simply ask you to sign a statement to that effect and the funds can be distributed to the specified charities. All very worthy ones, I might add.
