If tears had developed, I probably would have done something for him, but so far I didn't like his attitude or approach. It was like he was a stalker or something, and I didn't want to be a part of him doing something loony or worse with a shy writer living in my hometown, so shy that even I hadn't heard of him.
"Look—"
And then he surprised me by digging deep into his manbag, and my hand went back to the open drawer of my desk, to the cool metal of my revolver, wondering just how quick I should react to whatever was coming out of his bag, but there was no weapon, just a book.
I took a breath, thinking that the poor kid had been five seconds away from having one of Ruger's finest products presented a couple of feet away from his head. He held the book up; its cover showed a spaceship apparently in orbit around Saturn and had his name on it. The title of the book was High House Revenge.
He handed the book over and I looked at it. “Really? You wrote this?"
His smile was small and shy. “Yes, I did. Based on that teleplay he wrote ... an inspiration. Of course—” His smile got even more shy. “—I couldn't get a real publisher interested in the book. So I had to get it self published. And that cost me a lot of money."
I held the book and flipped it over, where I saw his face in black and white on the back cover. I hefted the book and looked to him. “Let me guess. You wanted to bring this to him and have him look at it. Right?"
He looked so very relieved. “Yes, that's right. I would. That's been my dream, for a very long time. To have him personally autograph it."
I gave him back his book, saw the puppy-dog look on his face, and something just gave way inside of me. “Okay. Let's see what we can do."
* * * *
And it almost ended before it started. From the top drawer, I pulled out the standard client form, and his eyes widened when he saw the rate schedule at the top of the page.
His voice almost squeaked. “Eighty dollars? An hour?"
"That's the standard rate,” I said. “It's more for evenings and weekends."
This time, the tears did come. “I'm sorry, I can't afford that. I really can't."
Me, I'm a sucker for tears. “What can you afford, then?"
His hand darted back into the manbag and out came a crumpled twenty dollar bill. He slid it across my desk and I just smiled, made a few adjustments to the standard client agreement, which he signed. After he left, I went out to earn my pay.
* * * *
Lucky for me, one of the joys of living in a small town is being connected to a very informal but very efficient intelligence agency. It has no committees or board of directors or any oversight board, which is probably why it is so very efficient. This particular agency knows who's a success in business, who's cheating on his or her spouse, and who's going to build a new extension on their home. It also knows who's ill, who's recovering from surgery, and who's getting ready to move to Manchester. The little and the big, this intelligence agency knows a lot.
Though not a native of Purmort, I've come to be accepted as someone who did her part for the town, and I became friends with members of this intelligence agency, including the town clerk, one Mrs. Pam Dawkins. The little sign on the outside of her office door in the town hall said closed, but knowing better, I opened the door to find her having lunch at her desk. I suppose any other member of town would have gotten a “get the hell out of my office” look, but to Pam, I'm not just another resident, I'm one who helped her out when her ex-husband decided to skip town and stop paying child support. I took on her case and got everything resolved favorably—favorably, that is, for Pam.
She looked up from her yogurt container and said, “Must be something to interrupt my four-star lunch."
"It's something, but not earth shattering,” I said, taking a seat across from her in her small and cluttered office. “Need to know about someone."
"Sure, that's what I'm here for,” she said. “To faithfully serve the townspeople of Purmort."
"Harmon Drake,” I said. “Does he live here?"
She smiled, brought up a spoonful of yogurt to her mouth. “Didn't know you liked science fiction."
"Well, I tend to read mysteries when I can, but there you go. What can you tell me about him?"
Pam slurped some of the yogurt from the spoon. “Funny thing, you're the second one to ask about him in as many days."
"Yeah, funny thing. Let me guess. The first one to ask you about Harmon Drake was a skinny young man with a starter beard on his face. Am I right?"
That resulted in a laugh and Pam said, “The same. He wanted to find out where Harmon lived, and I told him I couldn't help him."
"Why not? Tax maps and tax records are a matter of public record, aren't they?"
She had an impish grin on her face. “True. And if Harmon Drake paid taxes in this town, and if Harmon Drake owned property in this town, I would have to tell young sire where he lived. But he doesn't, and I didn't."
"But he does live here."
"Yep."
It took another spoonful of yogurt before I figured it out. “He either rents or he owns it under a company name. And the company pays all the bills."
"Very good,” she said. “A few years ago, he incorporated himself, and the corporation owns the property and pays taxes on it. Legally, his name doesn't appear in any of the public paperwork. He's not even registered to vote. Not bad, Karen. You ought to try using that keen mind for a career or something. Like a private detective."
"Yeah, a good idea. And the kid didn't know enough to ask that?"
"Nope. And even if he did ... hell, the guy deserves his privacy, right? You know there's a whole bunch of famous writers who live in New Hampshire, and we nutty locals like to help them protect their privacy. Like the guy who wrote Catcher in the Rye, J. D. Salinger. And that other guy, who wrote that book about Da Vinci and his code. None of the locals ever tell the devoted fans where they live. Harmon Drake just likes to be left alone, and who can blame him? Besides, that kid gave me the creeps."
I cocked my head a bit. “The creeps? Really? Seemed pretty harmless to me."
Pam scraped the bottom of the yogurt container with her plastic spoon. “Maybe so, but he was really adamant on finding out where Harmon Drake lived. Kept on pushing and pushing ... practically started crying. Said this was his last chance, and that I had a duty to help him. And I told him that my duty was to the taxpayers of Purmort, and that he didn't fit the bill. A few more words and then he left."
"What was he so angry about?"
She took the empty container, tossed it at a wastebasket in the corner, where it hit the edge and fell in. She looked happy and turned back to me. “Said Harmon Drake owed him money, and that he was going to make sure he paid up."
"Money? Are you sure about that?"
"Yep. Money. And then he left, saying he was going to the police. And obviously he got the same answer, because he ended up with you."
"Lucky guy, huh?"
"You said it,” Pam said.
I got up. “Mind telling me where Harmon Drake lives?"
"Sixteen Townsend Road. Can't miss it."
"And why won't I miss it?"
She smiled. “The lack of old cars, abandoned toilets, and domesticated animals in the yard."
I headed to the door and turned before opening it.
"Pam?"
"Yeah?"
"How come I got the address so easily?"
She laughed. “Because I know and like you."
"Really?"
"Truly. And, well, one more thing."
"What's that?” I asked.
"I help set the tax rates for the town,” she said. “So I know you'll play nice. Right?"
I smiled back at her and left before committing myself.
* * * *
Townsend Lane was a narrow one-lane blacktop on the north side of town. Most of the residences on it were old Cape Cod homes, a couple of distressed farmhouses, and some doublewide trailers. Even without th
e handy numbers on the fence posts and mailboxes, it was easy to determine where Harmon Drake lived: His house looked like it belonged in a pricey Beacon Hill neighborhood. It was big and set off a distance from the road, made of gray stone and brick, with what looked to be a curved driveway set off from the large front door. There was also a tall, black wrought-iron fence surrounding the property. I pulled over and stepped out. The driveway was blocked by a gate and on the gate was a sign:
NO SOLICITORS
NO TRESPASSERS
PROPERTY UNDER SURVEILLANCE
Off to the side, on a metal post holding up one end of the gate, was an intercom box. I pressed the switch and called out, “Mister Drake? Harmon Drake?"
Only got the hiss of static in reply.
"Mister Drake, my name is K.C. Dunbar. I'm a private investigator in town. I'd like to speak with you."
More hissing of static.
"Mister Drake?"
Still no reply.
I stepped back to my Ford, looked over the property. “Damn,” I said. “Guess there's more to this writing gig than I imagined."
* * * *
Back at my office, Terry Crandall was waiting for me outside, shifting from one foot to the next, like he had to use a restroom or something. I pulled in to an empty spot in front of my neighbor, an Italian restaurant, The Coliseum, that was run by a second-generation Greek family—typical for New Hampshire. When I got out, he looked at me and asked, “Well? Well?"
"Well, what?” I asked. I went to my office door—k.c. dunbar, investigations, stenciled with gold leaf lettering on the door—unlocked it, and went inside. I went to my desk and opened the center drawer, sat down, and watched my client take a seat, his manbag on the floor between his legs. I went into my jeans and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and slid it across my desk.
Terry looked at the face of Andrew Jackson. “I don't understand. What's this?"
"Your fee."
"My fee?"
"Yeah,” I said. “Your fee. You're no longer my client, Terry, and I'm turning down your case. Such as it is."
"But why? What happened?"
I said, “What happened is that you lied to me. That's a big no-no. I may lie on your behalf, I may twist the facts a bit to help my client, but having a client lie to me is a non-starter. So I'm afraid I can't help you."
"When did I lie to you?"
"When you told me that you wanted to see Harmon Drake for an autograph,” I snapped back. “Maybe that was so, but you also wanted to see him for something else. You think he owes you money, is that right?"
His face grew red in an instant. “He does, he does owe me money."
"Why didn't you tell me that before?"
"Because you didn't need to know! I just needed to find him, that's all, and I'd take care of it by myself."
"Take care of what, Terry? How does a science fiction author here in New Hampshire owe a graduate student from Massachusetts some money?"
He ran his hands across the back of his head, like he was trying to smooth down his hair. “Because ... I bought something from him. And he won't let me return it. And get my money back. That's not fair."
"You purchased something from him? From this famous science fiction author? He actually sold you something?"
"Yes."
My drawer was still open, the Ruger .357 in its usual place. “Terry? What did he sell you?"
It looked like he was trying to keep whatever control he had, and he said, his voice low, “A script."
"A script? From when he wrote for that television show?"
Now tears were running down his cheeks, and he got up from his chair. “I'm sorry ... I'm sorry I wasted your time ... and if you can't help me, I know somebody else in this town will!"
He reached down, grabbed the twenty dollar bill, and left my office.
I let out a breath, closed my desk drawer, and rubbed my hands together. One for the books, for sure, from the oddball client to the oddball writer, and everything else in between. I turned around and went to my computer, spent a bit going through my e-mail—not sure why a woman gets so many Viagra and body-enhancement related e-mails—and when it came time for lunch, I nearly tripped over something near my desk.
My former client was in such a hurry to leave, he left his manbag behind.
I picked it up, thought for a moment, and then went back to my computer. I guess I could have looked through it, but since he wasn't my client anymore, I decided to skip that. A few seconds of research later on my computer I found only one motel on Route 4, the Purmort Arms. I called, learned that Terry was in fact a guest there, and left him a message, saying I had his bag. Along with that message, I gave him my office number and my cell phone number, and then left for a day at the county courthouse to do some real investigative work.
And that was the last I ever saw of him.
* * * *
Later that night, I was having some fettuccine Alfredo and sharing it with my main man, Roscoe, who sat next to me on the couch, eyeing my bowl of pasta with cool seriousness. I ate some of the pasta and said, “Well, that was my day. Pretty odd, huh? And how was yours?"
Roscoe didn't say much of anything. He rarely does, and usually it's a whine or a cry that can cut right through you. Roscoe leaned over and I put a bit of cheese sauce on the end of my thumb, and presented it to him, and with his little raspy tongue, he cleaned it right up. Roscoe is a black and white cat, about the size of a small raccoon, and mostly he's a delight, though sometimes he has the personality of an old man standing in a deli line, holding number twenty and looking up and seeing that customer number seven is being served.
He lapped again and I thought he was going to say something, but instead the phone rang.
"Karen?” came the woman's voice.
"Here."
"It's Pam Dawkins."
I looked at a clock on top of the coffee table. It was nearly eight p.m. The town offices close at five p.m. “Working late?"
"No, but I just found out something about that kid from Massachusetts who came to see us."
"What's that?"
She sighed. “Karen, he's dead."
* * * *
A few minutes later I was back at Harmon Drake's house, where the way was illuminated by flashing lights from a variety of police cruisers and an ambulance from the Purmort Volunteer Fire Department. I parked behind a county sheriff's cruiser and got out and walked up to the now open gate. There were some locals standing across the way from the main gate. One of the three police officers for the town, Seth Gorshen, was standing guard by the gate and nodded at me when I came up.
"Hey, Seth."
"Hey, Karen,” he said.
Something cold seemed to be growing in my throat. “What happened?"
Seth said, “Karen, you know I can't say much. It's still under investigation."
Up by the house was a little group of people, all in uniform, save one, a plump guy with a goatee, wearing black pants and a white shirt, talking to a state trooper with a notebook. Harmon Drake, no doubt.
"I know, Seth,” I said, “but the kid who's dead, Terry Crandall ... he was my client."
Technically, he was no longer my client since I returned the money, but that was between him and me. I still had that signed client agreement back in a file folder at my desk, and as far as I was concerned, I was back on the poor kid's payroll.
"Oh,” he said. “I guess the chief will want to talk to you."
"I guess so."
He turned and then said, with a touch of embarrassment in his voice, “Hey. Ask you a favor?"
"Sure."
"Make sure nobody tries to get in, okay?"
"No problem,” I said, crossing my arms, looking up at the house, wondering how they could all be standing around, calm and cool, where a young boy had been killed.
* * * *
Chief Paul Wilkins came down the driveway, moving slowly and deliberately, as only a man who looks like a mobile fire hydrant can. He's a few in
ches shorter than me and about a foot wider, and his two joys in life are eating and being police chief. He has a mustache and a florid face that looks like he's about ten blood pressure points away from a cardiac event, and he's been the chief for two months, since the prior chief left for the greener pastures and heftier paycheck of a Homeland Security job.
"Karen,” he said.
"Chief,” I replied. We have a proper and cool relationship, meaning that I don't bug him over the weekend for routine items that can wait for Monday, and he doesn't make me pay five dollars per photocopied sheet of a police report for an insurance investigation.
"I understand that the victim here was a client of yours,” he said.
"He was."
"What was that about, then?"
I nodded past his shoulder. “How about a quick and fair trade. You give me a thumbnail of what happened here, and I'll tell you what I know about my client."
Any other police chief in any other large town probably would have told me to go to hell, but this was Purmort. Wilkens shrugged and said, “From what Harmon Drake has told me, the guy's been harassing and stalking him for months. Wouldn't leave him alone. Then a few hours ago, he jumped the gate, came up the driveway. Seems like he found where Harmon lived by calling the local oil dealers, found out who delivered to the local writer guy. Alarms inside the house rang off and Harmon went to the door. Said the kid was verbally abusive, had a knife in his hand, and that he was in fear for his life ... so he shot him."
Those few plain words just shocked me, though I was anticipating them. I just closed my eyes, thinking of the slim young man who couldn't even grow a decent beard, and how he seemed to have the emotional depth of a twelve-year-old boy. “Where?"
"Once, in the chest. Then Harmon called us, and the fire department, and by the time we got here, the kid had bled out."
"You find the knife?"
"Yep. Folding clasp knife, right in his hand."
"Did—"
"Nope,” the chief said, shaking his head. “Now it's my turn. Fair enough?"
"Oh yeah, chief, fair enough. Go ahead."
The chief now had a notepad in his hand, and by the light of a nearby Purmort police cruiser, he started taking notes. “You said this Crandall was a client of yours. For how long?"
AHMM, July-August 2009 Page 6
