Knowing Penelope

by Donna Carrick

  KNOWING PENELOPE

  A Happy Customer

  Axe Husband

  Low Roller

  Prepared

  Appearances

  About the Author

  Other Titles by Donna Carrick

  The First Excellence

  Gold And Fishes

  The Noon God

  Sept-Îles and other places

  Connect with the Author

  KNOWING PENELOPE

  A Toboggan Mystery Anthology

  Volume II

  DONNA CARRICK

  Knowing Penelope

  ©Donna Carrick

  Kindle Edition Published 2012

  Carrick Publishing

  ISBN 13: 978-1-927114-18-6

  Kindle Edition, License Notes:

  This e-book is intended for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be sold or given away to other people. If you did not purchase this e-book, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  CARRICK PUBLISHING

  ©Donna Carrick 2011

  Cover design by Jason Fletcher

  Praise for The First Excellence

  Winner of the 2011 Indie Book Event Award for excellence in fiction. .~ The Indie Book Collective, July, 2011

  Top Read for 2010! Donna Carrick has what should be, and hopefully WILL become, a best seller. ~ The Sunday Book Review

  An exquisitely-crafted saga of one person's search for her roots set against a clash of cultures. An intricate plot that mirrors the subtlety of China itself….~ Jim Napier, The Sherbrooke Record, February 18, 2011, also Deadly Diversions

  …compelling storylines…A complex mystery with multiple plots and a host of intriguing characters. …pleasantly unpredictable… ~ Kirkus Discoveries

  I highly recommend this book, read it, you won't be disappointed. ~ Barbara Kent, Success Books

  I fell in love with this book from the first two paragraphs. It grabs your attention and doesn't let go until well after you finish… ~ The Book Journal

  Praise for Gold And Fishes

  Meticulously researched…vivid and heart-wrenching…poignant and evocative…the gripping account of a global disaster…. ~ Jim Napier, The Sherbrooke Record, May 18, 2007, also Deadly Diversions

  Praise for The Noon God

  The Noon God fascinates the reader with the brilliance of its stark choices and the hidden depths of its shadows. ~ Midwest Book Review

  Praise for Sept-Îles and other places

  Haunting and moving stories, an eclectic collection. I devoured every word. ~ Roberta Beach Jacobson, author of Snow Bride

  Other Titles

  The First Excellence, ©2009/2011

  Gold And Fishes, ©2006/2011

  The Noon God, ©2006/2011

  Sept-Îles and other places, ©2011

  Knowing Penelope, ©2012

  Thanks as always to my husband, Alex, and to our children, Tom, Ted and Tammy-Li.

  In sunshine or snowy weather, we enjoy the ride.

  For their friendship and boundless talent, I’d like to thank my good friends and fellow crime writers Jane Burfield, Vicki Delany, Cheryl Freedman, Madeleine Harris-Callway and Dorothy McIntosh. Gratitude also to friend Joan O’Callaghan for encouragement and support.

  It was in another time,

  One no doubt less enlightened

  And refined than yours, dear Reader.

  That’s the only explanation

  I can offer you who follow

  For the crimes recorded here.

  ~ Donna Carrick

  A Happy Customer

  I woke to the sound of an engine humming. Or maybe the noise was inside my head. It was muffled and I couldn’t be sure.

  My eyes were gummy and slow to open. A throbbing at the back of my skull reminded me of the night before.

  The images were foggy, dispersing as quickly as they formed in the hangover haze of my memory.

  At least I was alone. To all appearances, I’d spent the night that way. Small mercies….

  As morbid as it might seem under the circumstances, my mind toyed with the question of my rather tenuous mortality. I seemed to have a penchant for brushing up against death. Too often I’d swaggered through ‘the valley’. One of these days, the shadow was gonna get me.

  It should have laid its claim the night Mom died. I remembered the accident with regrettable clarity.

  She was drunk, of course, my mother. There’d been a fight with her boyfriend.

  I was a wee bit-of-a-thing when it happened, only five years old. My brother Dale was ten. Being older, he got to sit in the front with Mom.

  “Stop whining, Penelope,” she said, buckling me into the child seat. I hadn’t outgrown the contraption, but it hurt my pride being strapped into it like a baby.

  I didn’t see the truck, though I was blinded by its headlights. I heard my brother Dale’s last word. More of a holler, really: “Mom!”.

  And then the crash.

  They hunted for my father, but couldn’t locate him. No big surprise there. Aunt Rachel saved me from the orphanage. For that I’ll always be grateful.

  She was an odd duck, my mother’s sister. She tried her best, in her eccentric way, to raise me right. I suspect my ‘angry teen years’ were more than she’d bargained for.

  I doubt she was very sorry when, at eighteen, I ran off and got married.

  I tried not to think about Bruce. Memories of my ex-husband made my head pound, and for a moment I worried I might have an aneurysm.

  We weren’t together long, Bruce and I. Like most young women who carry a big rage, my anger was mostly self-directed. His, though, presented itself in outward physical aggression.

  The night he strangled me till stars ruptured behind my eyes, I knew I’d reached a pivotal moment.

  Like most epiphanies, this one came down to a single choice: either put away my anger once and for all, or let it finish me. Let it put me away.

  So I left Bruce and took back my maiden name, Penelope Canon. I got on with the business of living.

  I’m still alive. Still angry, sometimes, but not with that wild, destructive rage I used to have.

  Not usually.

  Still living dangerously, though. I’d have to work on that.

  Rolling over, I accepted the pain at the back of my head. It wasn’t an injury – for that I was thankful. It was just a reaction to whatever I’d consumed the night before.

  ‘Acceptance’ is the key to life, in my opinion. With acceptance, all things, even a blasting headache, are manageable.

  I was still dressed. That was something else to be grateful for. It wouldn’t be cool to wake up naked feeling this badly.

  I reached down to my skinny jeans, working my fingers into the right-front pocket. My keychain was there, digging into my thigh.

  I drew it out, snagging a thread.

  It took some effort, but I pried my tiny pocket-knife open and used it to cut the duct tape from my wrists and ankles.

  Images from the previous day flooded my mind.

  I’d met with a client, Bob Regent, for lunch. He wanted me to track down a crooked investment broker who’d absconded with half-a-million of his life’s savings.

  I explained to Bob that finding these guys was one thing – they often used a string of aliases and had a variety of financial wells from which to draw – but recovering losses was something else.

  I hate taking jobs where the chances of success are slim. Often the clients have unrealistic expectations. When all is said and done, they’ll sometimes blame me for a less-than-stellar outcome.

  Bob assured me he understood. He wanted to find the son of a bitch, even
if he couldn`t recover his lost money, and he was happy to pay my usual fee to do it.

  Well, as they say, Kitty needs a new pack of Whiskas, so I took the job. Of course, I warned Bob one more time it might take weeks, even months, to get a bead on the so-called “Jeff Winger”. Con-men are the hardest crooks to nail. Their entire make-up is based on a structure of lies.

  “Penelope,” he said, “just do your best.”

  Bob gave me what information he could – a list of known associates and a handful of places Winger had frequented during their dealings.

  Little did I know the first lead I followed up on would turn out to be the money-maker. Sometimes that happens.

  Not often.

  It was just a name: Jim Stalwart. Bob had never met the guy, but he’d heard Jeff Winger mention him.

  Bob recalled hearing that Stalwart worked for a downtown law firm, Dohmish and Gray.

  He was right. I called D&G and was put through to Stalwart on the first try.

  Jim Stalwart was happy to talk to me. When I told him, without going into details, that I was trying to locate Jeff Winger, he could hardly contain his excitement.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

  “Penelope Canon,” I replied.

  “Ms. Canon, you couldn’t have called at a better time.”

  He admitted he had his own axe to grind – he’d lost a whack of dough to Winger, about 80 thou – and wondered whether he could piggy-back on my client’s investigation.

  I told Jim Stalwart I’d be happy to help him, but he’d have to cover my fee independently of my first client. It wouldn’t be fair to foist the bill onto one customer while working for two.

  Stalwart agreed.

  He suggested we meet so he could sign my contract. He promised to bring any info he thought might help with the search.

  “I’m not far from your office now,” I said. “Would you like me to drop by?”

  “Not here. I’m meeting a client this afternoon, but I’ll finish at 5. Let’s grab a bite.”

  At 5:30 I sauntered, skinny jeans and all, into Scotland Yard, a fine and funky pub on The Esplanade.

  Jim Stalwart was already there, watching the door from a booth to my left. He spotted the snug black bomber jacket and red poppy I told him I’d be wearing. He flagged me down.

  I gave him the same spiel I’d given Bob – there was no guarantee of finding the elusive con-man Winger and even less chance of recovering financial losses. Like Bob, Jim Stalwart was determined to bring Winger to justice.

  Stalwart had been saving to care for his aging mother. On a day-to-day basis, the loss wouldn’t break him, but it was a hit that pissed him off, just the same. He was willing to pay my meagre fee with no guarantee of success.

  It was the principle of the thing.

  By the time my curried chicken arrived, I’d given Stalwart – Jim – a good look-over. He wasn’t my usual type, but then, I hadn’t had much luck with my relationships in the past.

  It might be time for me to find a new ‘type’.

  Jim was handsome, though not in the classical sense. Brow a bit too wide, nose not quite centred on his face.

  Symmetry off just a smidge, but not enough to hurt the eyes.

  He was certainly well dressed. Clean casual.

  I looked down at my worn-out jeans and the too-tight purple sweater that was pilling from the wash. My boots were scuffed and my hair was more of a ‘mane’ than a fashion statement. As usual, I wasn’t wearing jewellery, and my only nod to conventional fashion was the poppy I wore this time of year.

  By comparison, Jim was downright natty.

  But what the hell, I could clean up nicely, too, given the right occasion.

  Anyway, I never date clients, so the chemistry between us, if I wasn’t imagining it, would have to wait. I let him order a drink for both of us and cut a path to the ladies’ room. I studied my reflection, doing my best to repair my dishevelled ‘Sydney Carton’ image using the tools I’d had the foresight to shove into my pocket – namely a comb and a half-squashed tube of lipstick.

  Great color, though. It couldn’t hurt.

  When I got back to the table, Jim handed me a napkin on which he’d jotted down five names. I didn’t say so, but three of them were already on the list Bob had given me. Jim’s list, though, included phone numbers for two of the names.

  I folded the napkin and wedged it into my left pocket to keep the tube of lipstick company. My keys were, as usual, threatening to wear a hole in my right pocket. Or into my thigh.

  “Thanks for the Intel,” I said.

  “My pleasure.”

  He pointed at my glass, but I shook my head. I didn’t need another drink. I’d barely touched the first.

  Jim Stalwart didn’t have much to offer in terms of info on our con-man. His association with Winger was brief, but his description of the bearded financial manager was in line with Bob’s.

  He signed my contract, paying my retainer in cash.

  The waiter took away my half-eaten plate of curry. I sipped my drink, sensing Jim’s attention was waning.

  “Let me get the bill,” I said. “I can expense it, since you’re a client.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Jim made his way to the men’s room as I handed the waiter my plastic.

  I wanted to call it a night, so I finished my drink before he returned.

  By the time he got back, I was pulling on my jacket. The poppy had come loose. Not wanting to damage the worn leather, I’d stuck it into the wool lining on the lapel. I should have anchored it with a bit of rubber.

  Jim reached for his coat. His poppy needed no adjustment. Like his hair, clothes… hell, like the man himself, the poppy was perfectly turned out.

  “Do you need a lift?” he asked.

  “No. I don’t have far to go.”

  It was a cool November, and the sun set early in our part of the hemisphere. Evenings were downright cold.

  I zipped my inadequate jacket all the way up.

  The drug didn’t take effect till we were on the sidewalk. At first it felt as if the single shot of rum was taking hold. By the time the pub door shut behind us, my head was spinning out of control.

  “Are you all right?” he said.

  Jim. That was his name. Jim…Stalwart. I fought to remember.

  “What the fuck did you do?” I said, pushing him away.

  I staggered, trying to get someone, anyone, to stop and help, but given the way I was dressed, like some throw-away street kid, and with my speech slurred, staggering hopelessly, I didn’t present a credible sight.

  A burly young man reached out for my arm.

  “Do you need help?” he asked.

  Jim explained that I was ok.

  “Just too much to drink,” Jim said.

  The man nodded and went on his way.

  I don’t remember getting into Jim’s car.

  It was early, only 6:30 or 7, but already dark. I recall only snatches of the rest of the evening – Jim pulling me from the car, warning me not to vomit on the seat. He was almost gentle, holding my thick hair as I leaned over the toilet once we were inside.

  Thank God I hadn’t finished my curry. As it was, the spicy chicken burned my throat on the way back up.

  I have a memory of Jim talking quietly as he wrapped duct tape around my wrists, but I’m not sure what he said.

  I do remember him repeating my name, Penelope, rolling it off his tongue the way a lover would.

  I didn’t mind. I let the sound of his voice lull me into sleep.

  He’d left me bound on the couch in his basement. At one point he’d taped my mouth, but I guess he was afraid I’d gag and choke on my vomit.

  Good to know he didn’t plan to kill me. Something else to be thankful for.

  **

  I looked around.

  It was daylight. There were windows in what must be a basement, but they were high and small.

  Stil
l, I was petite and capable of climbing. I flexed my muscles, stretching to free the circulation before trying to get up.

  My head throbbed, but not as badly as before.

  I took my time, wiggling toes and fingers under the horse-hair blanket Jim had used to cover me.

  Before I could sit up, the sound of footsteps warned me Jim was back.

  If that was his name.

  Damn!