by John Gaspard
I figured—given the size of the turnout for the lecture—every possible customer we possessed had already been in the store that morning and was unlikely to return.
“You are quite the demonstrator of products,” I said as I pulled the door shut and waited to hear the reassuring snick of the lock slipping into place. I used my key to turn the deadbolt.
“Am I? Well, I did a stint as a magic demonstrator at Harrods while at University,” Quinton said, turning up the collar of his long coat to the sharp wind which was whipping down Chicago Avenue. “Haven’t done it for years, so I was a tad surprised at how quickly it all came back.”
My mind toyed with a quick riposte about riding a bike and Bicycle brand playing cards, but I once again came up short. I headed toward the car, but in this mentally clouded state, I nearly collided with a ladder in the middle of the sidewalk. Quinton reached out and pulled me to safety.
I looked up to see a figure in a parka near the top of the ladder, adding large black metal letters to the theater’s marquee. While the jacket did a great job of obscuring the figure inside it, when I saw the reach she had in extending her arm to add a letter to the marquee, I knew it had to be Tracy. Although I know literally nothing about basketball, I had to imagine that long arms would be something of an advantage in the game.
“Are you still short a little help?” I asked loudly, suddenly wondering to myself if tall people take offense when you use the word short around them.
She glanced around, wondering where the sound had come from, and then looked down at us. Her face was visible through the faux fur that enveloped the hood of the parka.
“I’ve learned that theater managers are like mailmen,” she said, looking remarkable upbeat despite the cold conditions. “Rain, sleet, snow, hail. No game is ever called on account of weather.”
I stepped back and surveyed her work. Currently it read: Guess Who’s Coming.
“Guess Who’s Coming,” I said out loud slowly. “Clearly the first feature is Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner.”
“That is the favorite,” she said, digging through the box which hung on one of the ladder’s rungs and pulling out another letter. “Are you ready to double down on the rest of it?”
“Not quite,” I said, squinting at the marquee, as if that action would somehow make me smarter. I turned to Quinton, who was watching this exchange with a bemused smile. “The theater runs these oddball double features,” I explained, but he waved it away.
“Oh, yes, your uncle mentioned it when we drove by the theater earlier today. At that point, the marquee read, let me think…” He snapped his fingers. “It was Gone With the Mighty Wind.” He looked up at the marquee again and hummed softly for a moment. “How about Guess Who’s Coming to My Dinner With Andre?” he suggested.
“And we have a winner,” Tracy said with a laugh. She descended two rungs of the ladder and put her hand out. “I’m Tracy, by the way.”
“Well, Tracy By-The-Way, I’m Quinton Moon, and it is a sheer delight to meet you.” He shook her hand, adding in a quick pat with the left hand to complete the action. Somehow he was able to turn every moment into a James Bond charm-fest.
“Quinton gave a lecture on magic this morning in the shop,” I said, in a weak bid to stay in the conversation.
“I’ll bet that was fun,” Tracy said, her wicked smile visible within the confines of the parka hood.
“More likely tedious,” Quinton said. “I prattled on at length, not at all sure what I said.”
“He’s being modest,” I said, for some reason feeling the need to take on the role of his PR person. “The audience was spellbound.”
“Oh! And that’s another possible double feature for you, if I’m allowed to suggest,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Spellbound For Glory.”
Tracy laughed and I joined in halfheartedly. I had to admit it was a pretty good off-the-cuff suggestion.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll add it to my ever-growing list.” She started to re-climb the ladder, then turned back when she reached the top. “Nice to meet you. Stop by anytime for some free popcorn.”
“I will happily take you up on that kind offer if my schedule permits,” he said with a tip of his hat, using the British pronunciation of the word “schedule” which I usually find charming, but not at present. “Good day.”
He looked to me for direction as to where we were headed. I pointed him toward my car and we started to trudge toward it, my self-loathing-filled grumblings lost in the sound of traffic on the street.
“She seems like a charming girl, don’t you think? I mean, she’s no Megan, but delightful nonetheless.”
I winced at his mention of Megan and nearly missed my turn onto the freeway. “Tracy?” I said, feigning ignorance. “I don’t know her all that well, but yes, she seems nice.”
“But no Megan,” he repeated definitively.
“Yes. I mean no.” I merged into traffic and then attempted to merge this conversation into a different direction. “You have a corporate gig this week?”
“Yes,” he said. “An insurance group. Wonderful people.”
Another pause which may or may not have been awkward. I was no longer able to adequately judge. For his part, Quinton seemed content to look at the snow landscape as it sailed past his window.
“They certainly loved your lecture,” I finally came up with. “It was nice of you to take the time.”
“Happy to do it,” he said, turning away from the window. “You know what Arturo de Ascanio y Navaz said about magic.”
Of course I didn’t. I didn’t even know who he was talking about. “Ascanio?” I said, butchering the name.
“You know. He created the Ascanio Spread.”
“Oh, right,” I said, really having no idea if this was a card move or something you put on toast.
“I’m paraphrasing,” he said0, ignoring my blathering, “but he said something to the effect of ‘Magic is like gardening. It requires constant attention.’ I’ve found that to be, essentially, true.
“But enough about magic for one moment,” he continued, shifting in his seat to give me his full attention. “Your uncle mentioned you were part of a murder investigation. That must be fascinating.”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “I think you could say I’m officially on the far edge of the periphery of the case.”
“And a locked room murder, no less. That must be enthralling. Can you give me the pertinent particulars of the case?”
I glanced over at him and he raised an eyebrow at me. I considered my options. “I’m not really sure I’m at liberty to discuss the details,” I said, enjoying the officious sensation the statement provided.
“Oh, understood,” Quinton said quickly. “Completely understood. However, judging from the details your uncle provided…”
He then went on to outline each and every facet of the case, which Harry must have presented in minute detail. As it turned out, Quinton Moon knew exactly what I knew about the murder investigation, and for all I knew, probably more.
“I’ve had some experience in my travels,” he continued, “with the buying and selling of rare and precious artifacts. In my case, it’s generally been in the magic realm, you understand.”
“Sure,” I lied, not fully understanding. “Such as…” I said, gesturing for him to fill in the details.
“Oh, all types of miscellanea and ephemera. A blooming orange tree illusion, reputed to belong to Thurston,” he said offhandedly. “Some letters from Houdini to his brother. The gun that killed Chung Ling Soo.”
He turned and looked out the window as we wound our way through the streets of downtown St. Paul, which was snowy and quiet.
“In this world, Eli,” he continued, “I’ve learned for every soul who has something they treasure, there is almost always someone else who wants to take it from them. Often by
whatever means necessary.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to this statement, or if a response was even required. I was still sifting through conversational options as I maneuvered the car through the circular drive in front of the St. Paul Hotel.
“Anyway,” I said, falling back on our earlier topic, “thanks again for coming to do the lecture.”
“And thank you,” he said, taking my hand in a warm grip, “for the fine transport. I am sure beyond all measure my path will cross yours and Megan’s in the not-too-distant future.”
I suppressed a wince at his continued mention of Megan, but before I could compose a response, he was out of the car and on his way into the hotel.
As he strolled up the long red carpet which led to the gilded front doors, I wasn’t in the least bit surprised he seemed to be on a first name basis with the valets and bellmen, all of whom he greeted like long-lost friends. He was truly warm and convivial with each and every one of them.
God, he was annoying.
Chapter 9
“I’m a very moral man. Except, of course, when it comes to collecting.”
“Is that what you told the police?”
“Not in those words.” Chip Cavanaugh said this with a winning smile which I suspect had gotten him out of many a scrape in the past.
We were in the sunken living room of his penthouse apartment off Mears Park in downtown St. Paul. His phone number was the first of two Deirdre had dictated to me, and I called him after dropping Quinton Moon off at his hotel. Chip said he was available to chat right then and his apartment was only blocks away, so it seemed like the stars had aligned for this conversation.
Before going into the building I had done some quick research on Chip Cavanaugh, via my phone.
I saw at once why the name was familiar; as the middle son of one of the richest families in the Twin Cities, I had heard about him virtually my whole life, even though we were likely about the same age.
Like another local family, the Pillsburys, the Cavanaugh name had become synonymous with the business they ran—in their case, a large, privately held bank, the old and prestigious Cavanaugh Bank in downtown St. Paul.
A quick Google search of Chip showed him at various charitable functions over the years, always with a different beauty on his arm and the same self-satisfied smirk on his face. The photos which weren’t from charity events generally showed him at the helm of a large boat on Lake Minnetonka, or captaining a yacht in some far-flung sea race, with rich white guys fiercely competing against other rich white guys.
I didn’t come across any scandals, just article after article about how Chip, of all the Cavanaugh children, did surprisingly little except travel the world, sail boats and look after the family’s massive art collection.
Despite being a confessed lover of art, there was precious little on display in the impressive large, white-walled living room. In addition to the three blank walls, the apartment also sported a floor-to-ceiling window which offered a stunning view of downtown St. Paul, with the frozen river visible to the left and the dome of the Cathedral up and off in the distance. And distance was something I was keeping from that window. I am no fan of heights, less so in the last few months, but still enough that I avoided them whenever possible.
“Come, look at the view,” Chip suggested after he had taken my coat and offered me a drink. “After all, I’m paying a fortune for it,” he added with a laugh. He was shorter than I had anticipated, but solid and muscular, probably from years of playing lacrosse and water polo, or similar sports I couldn’t afford and didn’t understand.
“Thanks, but I’m good here.” I decided to not go into any explanation of my recent panic attacks in high places, or of my months of therapy, which had basically devolved into the therapist finally throwing up his hands and suggesting I simply stay away from high places. I had heartily agreed with this clever plan of action, bid the good doctor farewell, and had since really suffered no serious setbacks using this common sense approach.
“Suit yourself. So, what’s your connection to this case?” Chip asked as he crossed the room and took a seat in a matching chair across from the couch. Despite the frigid air outside, he was dressed as if for a tropical party, sporting leather sandals, khakis, and an understated Tommy Bahama shirt. Just like Clifford Thomas, he had a tan, which was not only out of season but also appeared to have been gathered on a faraway beach. “The cops weren’t entirely clear on your involvement in this whole brouhaha.”
“Neither am I,” I admitted. He saw me glance at a bowl of nuts on the table between us and pushed it in my direction. It had been a long time since breakfast and somehow lunch had eluded me. The amount of nuts I grabbed balanced on that delicate fulcrum between the most I thought I could politely take, while being the very least amount I wanted to eat.
“Friend of the victim?” he offered.
I shook my head, sorting the peanuts from the almonds from the cashews as I quickly arranged them in the order I planned to eat them. “I found—or I guess saw—the body,” I explained between bites.
“So you’re a person who’s interested in the persons of interest?” he suggested with a twinkle in his eyes.
“I think that’s the case,” I agreed.
“Like Thompson, the reporter.”
“Excuse me?”
“Thompson, the reporter in Citizen Kane. Trying to develop a post-mortem picture of the late Tyler James by talking to people who knew him.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s what I’m doing,” I agreed. “So, why are you a person of interest?”
He shrugged. “According to the police, because I used Tyler James’ services in the past. My collecting is focused mostly on the art world, but from time to time I have shown an interest, some would say an obsessive interest,” he added with a laugh, “in the world of movie memorabilia.”
“What sort of things did you buy through Tyler? James. James. Tyler.” I gave up on the whole name thing and ate some nuts.
“The police asked that same question,” he said, still smirking.
“And what did you tell them?” I was down to the cashews and wished I had taken more.
“I sort of took the fifth on that one,” he said. “You know, the one about self-incrimination?” I was chewing, so he continued. “From time to time, I purchased some treasures from Tyler which were not actually on the market. So to speak.” Again the smirk.
I looked from Chip to the huge window behind him, noticing for the first time a particular skyscraper which was dead center in the view. The home base for the Cavanaugh Bank.
“I understand you’re in charge of buying art for your family’s bank’s collection?”
“I oversee those purchases,” he said. “Primarily because my brothers have not taken a very strong interest in the arts or collecting.”
“You’re more active in collecting?”
More sneering. “Much more active.”
I couldn’t help glancing around the room at the bare, stark walls. He watched me, his smile getting even wider.
“And you have a personal collection?”
“I do.”
“Where do you keep it?”
He shrugged. “Around.”
While probably in his late thirties, Chip’s attitude was that of a teenager with a very funny little secret he was keeping from the world. Or from me. He ran a hand casually through his thick head of hair and settled back farther into his chair.
There was a long pause as I considered where to take the conversation next. He continued to chuckle throughout. I felt enough time had passed, so I took a second handful of nuts, nudging as many cashews as possible into my hand. “You said earlier you’re a very moral man, except when it comes to collecting. What did you mean by that?”
He leaned forward, seeming engaged for the first time since I had arrived. “Mr. Marks, do
you collect anything?”
“You mean besides debts and parking tickets?”
“No, I mean seriously collecting something. Like stamps. Coins.”
“Hmmm,” I said, thinking about it. “When I was a kid, I remember I loved Mad magazine and I tried to collect all the issues. That is, until I found out how many of them there were and how much the older ones cost.”
“Sadly, scarcity drives the economics of these things,” he said.
“Then, of course, I had to own the entire set of Tarbell.”
“Tarbell?”
“It’s a set of magic books, The Tarbell Course in Magic. Eight volumes total. There’s a saying in the magic community that if you think you’ve invented a new idea, look in Tarbell, because you probably haven’t.”
“And did you ultimately collect the full set, all eight books?”
“I did,” I said. “And they’re still on my bookshelf. If I were a better magician,” I added, thinking about Quinton Moon, “I would take them down and study them more often.”
“See, you understand the joys of collecting a group of things—a set. There are many people out there like that. Completists. For me, the fun comes in collecting something singular. Where there is one and only one.”
“Art?”
“Art, yes. Movie memorabilia, by all means. Whatever catches my fancy.”
“What might catch your fancy?”
“You mean hypothetically?” His arch tone matched his eyebrows as he practically winked at me.
“Sure,” I said, playing along. “Hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically then,” he said, turning to his right and gazing at the white wall on the far side of the room, “I’d love to be the one who owns Picasso’s Le Pigeon Aux Petits Pois.” He saw my puzzled expression and kindly translated for me. “The Pigeon With Green Peas.”
“Never heard of it. What’s stopping you?”
