"I hadn’t even thought of that," I said.
"It makes more sense."
"It does. But I could swear I saw his lips come together to form the p. That's what made me think he said carp. Car would have been an obvious choice, and if he said it, I would have immediately heard it like that."
"You do have a strange logic."
"Thank you," I said, taking it as the compliment I knew it was intended to be.
"But I think I'm right here. We're going to have a look at the guy's car tomorrow. And we're following that lead."
I shrugged. "Suit yourself, but I think it’s a mistake."
He chuckled. "You're trying to show up my team?"
I returned the chuckle. "Just trying to make them work a little harder, that's all."
"Huh," he said. "So you think they don’t work hard enough."
"I didn’t say that."
"Well, you said you're trying to make them work a little harder. What else is that supposed to mean?"
I looked at him. He wasn't kidding anymore. "No offense intended, Lester, but isn’t it obvious? Look at the last homicide case you had. Who was it again that did the majority of the work needed to solve that one again? I forgot. Who was it?"
"Alright," he said curtly, "that's enough."
"No, I'm serious. Who was it? I can see her now in my head."
"Madison, you’re not funny."
"Oh, I'm not trying to be. Nor was I trying to be when I was sitting in my office, tied up by the killer's hired goon."
"We found out a lot in that case."
"Yeah, but I busted the guy. All I lacked was a badge, and from the looks of things, the only thing one needs to get a badge in the Carl's Cove Police Department is two legs and a heartbeat."
His gait quickened. "You're unbelievable."
"Am I right? You're offended?"
"You bet I'm offended."
"Oh, please. It's not even your department. They had to call you in."
"They're my team, and they do a damn fine job."
"I never said they didn’t. I just said that they need to work a little harder."
"And we're back to that again."
"I guess we are. Funny how that happened."
"You know what? If you think you can do a better job, try out for the force. In the meantime, I'm warning you: Stay out of official police business."
"Sure, I wouldn’t want to mess up your guys' stellar investigative work."
"I'm serious, Madison. You want to be brought up on charges of interference?"
I made a noise to this. It was the kind of noise you make with your lips that's a cross between a raspberry and a whistle. It probably wasn't the right thing to do, and in retrospect, I probably would've been better off not saying or doing anything. Anyway, I think it was the dismissive quality of it that annoyed him most.
"Alright," he said, "We're done here."
With this, he turned to walk back to the car. "Are you coming?" he called without looking back.
"I'm walking," I said. It wasn't that far a walk back to my house. And besides, I had little use for drama.
I guess this is where the official break between the police and me began. Little did I know how much trouble it would cause.
#
What happened next was typical to this case. That is, someone with information came to my office directly.
I was just starting to get stuff sorted out. Gerry and I had decided to offer a perry – pear cider – as well as a stout. The acidic fruitiness would be a nice counterbalance to the stout and the other offerings on our list.
Also, our bar was just about finished and ready for customers. In other words, I was happy to give murder a break and get back to the brew biz.
Until she came in.
I guess that sounds a little like a Raymond Chandler novel. Why is it that so many pulp stories begin with the arrival of a mysterious woman?
Well, mysterious she was.
My girl up front said, "I have a Ms. Zelda Calverton."
The name didn’t ring a bell. I looked through Dad's ancient rolodex that I still kept on my desk – a lot of valuable contacts in there – and found no matches.
Send her up, I said.
By way of introduction came a slight waft of Chanel. Then a black Vera Wang dress was the first thing I saw. And then the rest of her.
She was a tall, statuesque blonde. Her lips were cherry red, her eyes wide and dark blue. She carried a very serious expression that looked like she'd had it on her face at all times. All in all, she was stunning – the type of woman that makes a girl like me afraid to look in the mirror.
"Ms. Darby," she said in long, languid tones, "I'm Zelda Calverton. You don’t know me."
"I gotta say I don’t, Ms. Calverton. Please have a seat."
Instead of taking the chair in front of my desk, she opted instead for the couch on the side, the very couch Daniel Ward had fallen onto when he died. She crossed her legs elegantly and stared at me.
"So," I said uncomfortably, "what brings you here?" I was trying to be official.
"As I said, you don’t know me. But you probably know my products. I'm the CEO of Juice First, Inc."
"The organic health food line. Of course I know those products."
"Yes, you do, but you probably don’t know a few of our subsidiaries. For instance, do you also happen to know that I own Gnome Brewing, Inc?"
I'd heard that Gnome had sold out to a giant macro-corporation. I had no idea it was this one. I told her as much, leaving out the phrase "sold out,” of course.
"Mmm," she said, pulling a Virginia Slims cigarette out of a gold case. "Do you mind?"
"As a matter of fact, I do," I said.
"Pity," she said, replacing the cigarette. "Anyway, I'm here on behalf of my husband. My late husband."
"Ok," I said, not making the connection.
"I heard you were looking into his murder."
Now it dawned on me. I was speaking with Ms. Eli Campbell herself. He was married, I knew that. But no one seemed to know much about the woman to whom he was married. The couple had done a spectacular job of shielding her from media attention. Even in the wake – no pun intended – of her husband's death, this woman sitting here before me had managed to evade even the most prying eyes.
"Forgive me," I said, rising from my desk and moving closer to the couch. "I didn't realize you were, that is, I didn't—"
She held up her hand as if to hear no more. "It's fine. I keep a low profile."
"Well, allow me at least to offer my sincere condolences. I'm sorry for your loss. From what I knew of Eli Campbell, he seemed to be—"
Again she held up her hand. "My dear, you're going to hurt yourself. Don’t bother. I above all people realize what kind of man Eli Campbell was. Believe me, what you knew of him was only the tip of the iceberg, to use that disgusting cliché. But, I loved him. To the point where we could no longer be together in the same room. It happens like that sometimes, you know. Sometimes two people are just too similar to live with each other. Such was the case of Eli and me. Still, I'd like to find out who killed him. And I'd like to make you an offer should you decide to help me."
"Help you?"
"Yes," she said. "I am looking for someone other than the police to help me find Eli's killer. You see, Eli had some...shall we say...indiscretions in the past. He was quite the naughty boy, if you will."
"I suppose I've heard some stories."
"Oh, gossip tabloid tripe. I'm not talking about that. No, my Eli was involved in things of which the tabloids never even got a whiff with their little piggy snouts. And before you ask the necessary if obnoxiously simple question of why I'm not going to the police, let me just say that I have good reason to keep Eli's indiscretions a secret. You see, should the police dig in far enough to find out who killed my husband, they'll uncover things."
"And those things could lead to you."
Her eyes widened even more. "Clever little thing, aren’t
you? Yes, indeed. We were partners in crime, if I may."
"So, let me ask—"
"Why am I telling you this when your boyfriend is a cop?"
"That was going to be my question, yes. What's to stop me from going there right now?"
"Two reasons. First, I am going to pay you enough money so that you can buy that fancy shmancy little cottage that you and your cousin are renting. Second, I happen to know you and that boyfriend cop have had a bit of a tiff."
"You've been following me," I said, not uneasily. I had a queasy feeling in my gut that was getting hotter, and twisting my innards like pipe cleaners.
"Following? No. Investigating? Maybe. I vetted you. Understand, dear, I never invest without first doing a bit of research into what I am investing in."
"What if I said I have to think about it?"
"Think about it, then. But if you're anything like me, you may prefer a constant reminder of what it is that is at stake. So here."
At this, she rose and walked past me, over to my desk, all while digging into her bag. When she reached my desk, she placed a wad of bills on the desktop. From where I stood, I could see the stack was about an inch tall, and that the top bill was a hundred.
"Help me find the killer and there will be another payment just like this. I trust your ties to the police force through your, ahem, ex-boyfriend will be sufficient to run this case through and see it to its preferred end?"
And with that, Zelda Calverton closed her bag and left my office without saying anything else.
And I stared at the wad on my desk, unable to move for quite some time.
#
"What are you going to do?" said Tanya.
The stack of cash lay between us on our kitchen table.
I'd counted it. We'd both counted it.
There was twenty-five grand of tax-free cash in my house.
"What can I do?"
"The way I see it, you're now in business as a private investigator, and she's a paying client. You can declare yourself as such, pay taxes on this, and that's that. Welcome to your new practice. Goodbye, beer. Hello, private dick. Or is it private jane?"
"I don’t know."
"Well, the other thing to do is to keep it a secret. Make this a one-time thing, and let's buy this house. Then of course we run the risk of getting caught."
"You're acting as if I hadn’t thought of that."
Tanya ignored me. "And of course, there's a third option."
I looked up at her. It was the first time I'd taken my eyes off the money.
"Turn it in to the cops," she said. "This sounds like some pretty shady stuff."
Tanya always had the ability to echo my thoughts. It was shady stuff. But there was one part of that thought she had not picked up on: Yes, it was shady, but I liked it.
I wanted the money, yes. But there was something about this case that dragged me in and kept me there. I wanted resolution. And then there was the plain fact that something about all this mystery and intrigue ignited a fire in me.
"I guess," I said, rising from the table, "that from now on, I'm a private eye. I'm basically doing what I've been doing all this time. Only now," I picked up a handful of cash and let the bills flurry from my hands back onto the table, "I'm getting paid for it."
Tanya smiled at me. That was the answer she was hoping for.
#
The first thought that occurred to me the next morning was that this was the strangest freelancer-client relationship in history. I was going to be doing work for a person with whom I had no means of making contact. I didn’t even know what kind of "indiscretions," to use her word, she and her late husband had been up to. My only guess as to what I should do next was to start somewhere on the outside and work my way inward.
I'd already had a few interviews under my belt. So it was now time to start collating.
The Rev was just too weird. But that alone made him a suspect.
Then there was Pamela Tweed. Insult has a history of motivating folks to act harshly. Pamela Tweed would be no different.
Then there was Maisie Ward. Too quiet. Too placid. Then again, there wasn't much there anyway, save for a messed up family situation and a dead father.
Then we had Shawn Ward, speaking enigmatically of family and looking out for one another. And with a dead brother to boot.
Then we had Joe Badger and his avoidance of the spotlight when it came to Eli Campbell's actual murder scene.
I tried to think if I was missing anyone. And it was right around this time that my phone rang. It was Gerry.
"You coming in any time today?"
"Yeah," I said, "I have to make an appearance."
"Well, just so you know, the ship is running smoothly. The new batches are underway. Should be ready in a couple of weeks."
"That's good to know," I said. "Anything else?"
"Yeah," he said with a chuckle. "The strangest thing, actually. The reason I'm calling you in the first place was because a guy just came in and gave me fifty bucks to call you and tell you something."
"What?"
"Yeah, this guy comes in and asks for me personally. So they get me and I'm all smelling of spent grains and yeast. And there's this dude dressed in a three-piece suit, and he's wearing aviator sunglasses. He looks like he's dressed for a part in a political thriller. He says, 'are you Gerry Darby?' I say, 'Yes.' He says, 'Here,' and he hands me a fifty. At first I don’t take it. Then he says, 'Go ahead, take it.' I take it, thinking there's some sort of trick, or maybe I'm being punk’d. Then he says, 'That's payment for a task you're going to perform. You're going to call your cousin Madison right now and tell her the following message.' So, are you ready? Here it is: Zelda says, 'look at the gas tank'."
I was dumbfounded to say the least.
"Hello?" he said. "You still there?"
"So," I started to say, "yeah. So, ok. Thanks, Gerry."
"You know what that means?"
"Um, not sure. Maybe."
"So you know this guy or what?"
"Not really, no."
"Ok," he said skeptically.
"Listen, Gerry, you didn’t happen to get the guy's name, by any chance?"
"Nah, I was too busy trying to figure out whether or not he was on the level, and then trying to remember that message."
"And that was the only message?"
"Yep."
"And that was word for word?"
"Vibrato."
"The word is verbatim."
"Yeah, well, whatever. I have to get back to the batch. I'll see you around."
"Yeah, ok. Bye, Gerry."
He'd already hung up by the time I said bye to him.
Chapter 9
Look in the gas tank,
So I guess this was going to be the way my client communicated with me? Through suited goons with their pockets full of fifties?
I couldn’t believe it as I sat there in my living room with a yellow legal pad and the names of my suspects written down on it, and the puzzling phrase written in the upper right hand corner, and key in the carp written in the upper left.
I circled this new phrase. Gas tank? Maybe Lester Moore was right. Maybe there was something about a key in the car. Key – car – gas tank. It fit thematically.
I looked down my list. There were two names here related to cars. One directly, one indirectly.
Shawn and Maisie Ward.
I needed to revisit one or both of these people. Judging on my previous visit to their household, I wasn't too keen on going back. It struck me then that I never even checked up on Maisie Ward after the death of her father. I felt awful. Perhaps a one on one visit with her was first on the agenda.
#
She baked us cookies from the frozen log. They were as good as I remembered them being from when I was a kid. We drank coffee with them. Good coffee, freshly ground, freshly brewed.
"I don’t really bake, as you can see," said Maisie. "But I do love my coffee."
"I'm glad to hear that," I s
aid, making a mental note to throw a cup into Joe Badger's face next time I saw him.
The most interesting thing about this visit, however, was that here before me was a different Maisie than the shy, squirmy, embarrassed girl I'd seen on my previous visit. Without her overbearing uncle nearby, she was effervescent and talkative. And she moved quickly and spoke just as fast.
The first thing out of my mouth when I saw her was an apology. I told her I was immensely sorry for her loss. That I too had lost my father recently and I felt like a lizard for not expressing my condolences sooner.
And how did she respond to this?
"Good riddance," she said. "The world's a better place without him."
I have to say I was taken aback quite a bit by this. How does one respond to such a thing?
I responded not how Madison Darby, CEO, would respond. Rather, I responded the way Madison Darby, Private Eye, would respond.
"Now why would you say something like that?"
"Let's have some cookies and coffee and I'll tell you."
So there we sat with cookies and coffee, making small talk before she would reveal the dynamic of her and her father's relationship.
"Madison," she said, "you're a lucky girl. You had a father that you could mourn when he died. Me? I never really had a father to begin with. I didn’t know him. He was a scoundrel and cheated on my mother. He was always on the road and had to be cajoled into seeing me whenever he came home, if he came home. So again, I say good riddance. Who needs him?"
There was quite a bit of awkward silence after that. We munched our cookies for a moment or two.
"Where's your mom?"
"Working. She'll be home in a little while. You'll meet her."
"And how does she feel about your father passing away?"
"First of all, he's not passed away. He's dead. You can say dead. I won't be angry. Second of all, she feels pretty much the same way I do. The only things she'll miss are the alimony checks. But even that situation is improved as she'll be getting regular payments plus arrears from his estate."
"You're a coffee fan," I said, changing tactics. "You're also a beer fan. You find they're similar in one's appreciation of them?"
Murder With A Chaser (Microbrewery Mysteries Book 2) Page 6
