The Miser's Dream

by John Gaspard

  “It was okay, I suppose,” I finally said, deciding not to go into greater detail.

  “I must say, you missed the boat when you declined Quinton’s dinner invitation. He was delightful and the evening was a treat, a treat, I tell you.”

  Harry suddenly clapped his hands together and stepped around the counter to face me. “In fact, the sly bastard even pulled off the ice block trick.”

  He knew this would pique my interest, and he was correct. “Max Malini’s ice block trick? The one he did for Dai Vernon?”

  “The very one.”

  Malini’s ice block trick was legendary in magic circles. According to those who were in attendance, a couple hours into a dinner with Vernon and several other magicians, Malini was doing some innocent coin tricks at the table. At the conclusion of one effect, for which he had borrowed another diner’s hat, he lifted the hat to reveal an actual block of ice, completely frozen, sitting on the table.

  “With a block of ice?” I continued. “An actual block of ice?”

  “The very same.” Harry pulled up another stool and hiked himself up on it. He leaned in close and spoke in a conspiratorial tone, despite the fact we were the only two people in the store. “It was a thing of beauty. He was doing some very fine coin work, nothing we hadn’t seen but with some divine twists on the old techniques. Really elegant stuff. Even Sam was impressed. He actually whistled.”

  Being the resident coin man in the Mystics, getting more than a grunt from Sam Esbjornson when you performed a coin trick in front of him was considered the highest of praise.

  “He whistled?” My tone suggested I recognized hyperbole when I heard it, but Harry immediately began to shake his head.

  “Like a train he whistled. Anyway, Quinton’s in the middle of a routine and he asks to borrow a hat, so I gave him mine.”

  Harry’s hat was legendary, a fine wide-brimmed black fedora that had traveled more of the world than I was likely to ever see.

  “I handed him my hat, he set it over the coins on the table and what do you think was sitting there when he pulled it away?”

  “A block of ice?” I said this tentatively, not wanting to believe it was true.

  “Sure as I’m sitting here. An actual, freezing cold block of ice.”

  “How big was it?”

  “It fit under my hat, but just barely. Frozen as the day is long.” Harry shook his head, smiling at the memory. “It was a thing of beauty, Buster, a thing of beauty.”

  I felt a pang of regret, probably similar to the one felt by any magician who had declined the dinner invitation with Malini on that fateful night so long ago.

  “Sorry I missed it,” I said quietly. “Sounds like quite an evening.”

  “Oh, it was one for the record books,” Harry said as he climbed down from the stool and headed back behind the counter. “I can only imagine what miracles he has in store for us at his lecture this Saturday. Oh, by the way, that theater manager from next door stopped by earlier. Looking for you.”

  I twisted around on the stool, exacerbating the tender spot on my hip. “Really?” I asked, trying not to wince. “What did she want?”

  “She wanted you,” Harry said.

  “What for? For what?”

  “No details were forthcoming. I said I’d let you know she was looking for you. Which I have now done.” He studied me for a long moment while I considered what this might mean. “She said she’d be at the theater all morning,” he added.

  “Thanks,” I said, still considering the implications. “Well, shall we get started on inventory?”

  Harry gave me a long, penetrating look. “I suspect our inventory project will suffer if we are lacking your full attention. Why don’t I give it a start while you conduct your business next door?” I started to object, but he held up a hand. “Our inventory has sat here untabulated for months. I believe it can wait a tad longer without suffering undue negative consequences.”

  I could tell there would be no further discussion on the topic, so I headed next door without even stopping to grab my coat.

  I was surprised that the first of the several doors I tried opened immediately. I stepped into the quiet theater lobby and stopped, listening for any sounds of human habitation. I could hear voices, but after a moment it became clear it was a radio playing somewhere within the confines of the theater.

  “Hello?” I said both loudly and tentatively. A moment later, my call was echoed by a distant “Hello?” Seconds later, Tracy peered around a corner, a smile breaking across her face when she saw it was me.

  “Oh, hi,” she said, as she crossed toward me quickly. “Did I leave the door unlocked?” she said as she sailed past me and turned the bolt on the glass door. Not only did she turn the bolt, but also the latches at the top and the bottom of the door. She gave each of the other doors a test push, to ensure they were also locked.

  “Harry said you stopped by,” I began and then realized I had nothing to add to that thought, but I plowed ahead anyway. “Earlier this morning.”

  “Yeah,” she said, turning away from the final door once she was satisfied it was secure. She realized I had just observed her check five doors right in a row.

  “Sorry,” she said with a shrug. “I think this whole Tyler James thing has me a little spooked.

  “Understandably.”

  She ran a hand through her hair, which today looked properly combed and coiffed. “I wanted to let you know I went down and talked to the homicide detective this morning, first thing.”

  “How’d it go?”

  She playfully swatted the question away with her hand. “Piece of cake,” she said. “In fact, I think I bored him.”

  “I’m glad it wasn’t the ordeal you thought it might be.”

  “Not at all.”

  We stood there awkwardly, having quickly exhausted our supply of conversational gambits. And then a thought occurred to me.

  “You know,” I began, glancing around the lobby, “as long as you’re here, I’m wondering if I could ask a quick favor?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “It has to do with the murder,” I continued slowly. “This is hard to explain, but for reasons I don’t completely fathom, I’ll be talking to a number of suspects in the case this week. It might be helpful if I took a closer look at the crime scene.”

  She broke into a wide smile. “Look at you. Who are you, Encyclopedia Brown?”

  I shook my head. “More like Wikipedia Brown. I get some of the facts right, but people keep changing them on me.” This joke got the response it deserved, which was small, so I continued. “If now isn’t good, I can do it another time.”

  She shook her head and began to glide through the lobby. “Not a problem. The police finished their work up there. However, no one has stopped by to reinstall the projection room door they took off.”

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath on that,” I suggested.

  “Yeah, I figured as much. Anyway, go on up and snoop to your heart’s content. I’ll be in my office, placing Help Wanted ads online.” She gestured to the right and I headed up to the booth, while she turned to the left, moving toward what I assumed was her office.

  We both turned back at the same moment, laughed self-consciously when we caught each other doing it, and then continued on our respective paths.

  The house lights were on in the auditorium, but it was a dim climb to the top of the stairs to the projection booth. The large metal door had been set awkwardly against the back wall and the booth consisted of an open doorway with inky blackness beyond.

  I reached an arm slowly around the doorframe and felt delicately for the light switch, hoping against hope the lights weren’t controlled by a string dangling somewhere in the middle of the dark room. My fingers fumbled and then found pay dirt. I flipped one of two switches and the fluorescent lights hummed to life in
the small space.

  And it really was a small room, much smaller than I had remembered. Hence the term booth, I thought as I stepped through the entry and took the room in. The body was gone, of course, as was the envelope of money on the worktable. The police had also taken the two film canisters, which made me wonder for a moment how the killer had transported the film reels out of the building. I suppose in his, or her, haste, they grabbed the most valuable item in the room and made a dash for it, leaving both the cash and the canisters.

  There was a dark brown stain on the ground, but I noticed the toilet was no longer leaking, as no water puddles were visible on the floor.

  I turned and surveyed a bulletin board on the wall behind me. It held take-out menus from nearby restaurants and an old newspaper article about the previous owners of the theater, a nice couple that I only remembered vaguely from my childhood days haunting the theater. Also tacked to the board was a photo strip, one of those four-snapshot affairs you get from photo booths which used to turn up at county fairs and have now found new life at weddings and parties with a budget.

  The photo showed a man and a woman intertwined, making a series of faces at the camera. I assumed the guy was Tyler James, at a younger point in his life, but the woman didn’t spark any recognition in me. I studied the photo strip for a long time, trying to read something from their multiple, goofy expressions, but the only lasting impression I got was they appeared to be drunk or high. Or both.

  I stepped across the room and looked out the window on the far wall, with its dull view of the side of our building. Glancing up, I could see I had left the light on in my living room, but the window offered a far less expansive view of my space than my window offered of the booth. I stared up for several seconds, but the only valuable information I took away was that my living room ceiling was in desperate need of repainting.

  I turned and surveyed the booth from this new angle, hoping to see something—anything—which might spark an idea. I scanned the room for several long seconds, but nothing jumped out at me. Whatever secrets the room had, it was keeping them to itself. I moved past the large projector, which blocked access to one of the square holes that looked into the auditorium. The other hole had only the Blu-ray cart in front of it, providing enough space for me to lean over it and peer down into the theater.

  It was a long way from the booth to the screen, farther than I might have guessed. The curtains were open, revealing the large blank white screen, with a small stage platform in front of it.

  Red exit lights shone on either side of the screen, reminding me there was one other location in the theater I should check out if I wanted to be thorough in my ersatz investigation.

  I parted the curtains which led to the exit on the left side of the screen, stepping immediately back into darkness. My hand groped in front of me until I felt the door, which opened with a quick push of its center bar.

  Sunlight poured in and I squinted at the sudden brightness. I stood in the doorway while my eyes adjusted to the light, thinking the killer hadn’t had to deal with this sudden change in light levels. It would have been dark, with only the alley lights and the reflection of light off the snow providing illumination. Of course, on a bright, moonlit night, that can be more than enough light to see quite a distance.

  The view from the exit doorway didn’t offer any immediate answers as to why the killer had stepped out, or why he then turned around and stepped back into the theater. Perhaps he had seen someone. Or perhaps someone had seen him. Whatever it was, it was enough to force him back into the theater in search of another form of egress.

  Retracing those steps, I moved back into the building, once again parting the curtains and stepping into the auditorium as the exit door slammed shut behind me. My eyes reacted to the sudden low level of light and I squinted into the large space. My attention was drawn back up to the booth.

  I had forgotten to turn off the lights, which were visible through the two square holes in the back wall, as well as through the now doorless entryway. That meant another hike all the way back up there. I grumbled to myself as I started up the aisle.

  “You solve the mystery?”

  I looked over to see Tracy, silhouetted in the lobby doorway.

  “Not even close. And, like a moron, I left the lights on up in the booth.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she laughed. “I have to go up there and test tonight’s discs. Want me to unlock the lobby doors for you, or do you have more clues to ferret out?”

  “Don’t bother, I’m done here,” I said. “I’ll just go out the back,” I added, gesturing to the exit over my shoulder. “Thanks for letting me play detective.”

  “Come over and play with me whenever you like,” she said with a laugh as she turned and headed back toward her office.

  I considered the implications of this offer for a moment and then quickly made my way back to the magic shop, this time via the alley. It was a short walk, but I really wished I had brought my coat.

  I entered the magic shop’s back room, expecting to see Harry in the midst of counting and cataloging the hundreds of products we carry. His filing system, such as it is, is just this side of haphazard, with most of the products stored and labeled in a manner that makes sense only to him. Or not.

  But instead I discovered him seated at his desk, his feet up, happily paging through a book. He looked up when he heard me enter.

  “Buster, this is wonderful. Simply wonderful.”

  I didn’t recognize the book he was reading. “A new book?”

  “Yes, certainly, but also an instant classic. Quinton Moon gave it to me. It’s an advance copy of his new book on magic theory. Don’t worry,” he said, probably reacting incorrectly to the pained expression on my face, “you can read it as soon as I’m done with it.”

  “What happened to inventory? I thought it was a priority.”

  “Priorities shift,” he said without looking up. “We’ll get to inventory later. Or tomorrow. Or later tomorrow.”

  Before I could comment on the likelihood of that alleged event, my phone twittered. I pulled it out and scanned the incoming text, finishing up my reading with a small exclamation.

  “Fan mail from some flounder?” Harry asked as he licked his index finger and delicately turned a page in the book. The question was one of his favorite phrases from the old Rocky & Bullwinkle cartoons he had watched with me when I was a kid, laughing at jokes it would take me years to comprehend.

  “The police have finished their first interview and now it’s my turn. And it’s with Clifford Thomas.”

  At the sound of this name, Harry lowered the book. “Clifford Thomas? You’re going to talk to Clifford Thomas? The Clifford Thomas?”

  I re-looked at the text from Deirdre. “That would appear to be the case,” I said.

  Harry’s eyes twinkled. “Any chance you could get a book or two autographed for me?”

  Chapter 7

  Harry’s “book or two” turned into five, all hardcovers, which I lugged under my arm as I made my way up the immaculately shoveled sidewalk in front of Clifford Thomas’ Summit Avenue home.

  The lumber barons who built St. Paul had erected giant tributes to their wonderfulness on Summit Avenue, in the form of block after block of truly impressive mansions. The one Clifford Thomas called home was both typical and atypical. It was certainly large and imposing, but it also possessed a certain whimsical charm, including cast iron bats built into the fence that surrounded the house, and two decapitated snowmen in the front yard.

  The house included a turret and a widow’s walk, the latter of which had been decorated with a large Santa Claus figure. The illuminated leg lamp from the movie A Christmas Story was visible in the front window.

  Given the level of his publishing success, I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was the original prop from the movie. In fact, given how rich Clifford
Thomas was, that could have been Santa himself taking a shift up there on the widow’s walk.

  A former newspaper reporter and freelance critic, Thomas had made his name as the author of a series of mystery and thriller novels, all set in Minnesota and each featuring a clue-laden and weather-related title. Under my arm, I held Harry’s copies of Blizzard Watch, The Lake Effect, The Night of Black Ice, Polar Vortex, and his latest bestseller, The Endless Killing Frost.

  I had been surprised Clifford Thomas answered his own phone and was equally surprised when he answered his own front door. Despite being in the dregs of winter, he sported a healthy tan that appeared to have come from the sun, rather than a bottle or tanning bed. Perfect teeth formed a perfect smile as he put out a large, warm, and soft hand.

  “I’m Clifford Thomas, you must be Eli Marks,” he said, gesturing with his free hand that I should step out of the cold and into the massive foyer.

  His introduction was unnecessary, as his face was just about as well-known as his books, at least around these parts. No Salinger-esque reclusive lifestyle for the Twin Cities’ own Clifford Thomas. His face adorned local magazines, he appeared frequently on the local PBS fundraising telethon, hosted celebrity-packed charity events and was said to personally hand out candy to trick-or-treaters each Halloween.

  Needless to say, he offered full-sized candy bars to the kids, not the loathsome “fun size.”

  “I’m surprised you greet guests yourself,” I said. “I imagine you get a lot of fans knocking on this door.”

  “I do get a lot of fans who come to the house. Some I let in, some I don’t.”

  “Depending on your mood?”

  “Depending on the fan,” he said with a smile and a wink. “Oh, don’t bother taking your shoes off. I have dogs.”

  I was willing to take him at his word, but the surroundings belied his assertion. The immaculate wood floor showed no obvious evidence of canine occupation. He ushered me into the foyer and it did not disappoint. The lumber baron who built the house clearly had access to only the best timber and displayed it stunningly across the walls, the stairs, the banister and even an inlaid wood ceiling.