Vanity Fire

by John M. Daniel

  “So you expect him back this afternoon?”

  “Shit no. They left this morning about dawn.”

  “For good?”

  “For good riddance, man. That sumbitch bumped my boat three times getting out of his berth. I yelled at him, told him I was calling the harbor police, and he told me to quiet down. ‘Relax, man,’ he tells me, ‘don’t wake everybody up. I’m leaving,’ he says. ‘I’m out of here. Going home,’ he says.”

  “You know anything about him?”

  “I know he’s an asshole.”

  “Besides that? I mean you ever talk to him or anything?”

  “I just got here last night, man,” the sailor said. “I never seen that guy before this morning, and if I never see him again it’ll be too soon, but if I do see him again I’ll beat the shit out of him for knocking my boat and beating you up too, a little guy like you, that dude belongs behind bars. I gotta get back to work. But like I say, they’re gone. Good riddance.”

  “They?”

  “Him and his wife, I guess. Came on board at dawn, while I was having a cup of coffee. Then he fired the engine up like he had no idea what he was doing and bumped his way out of the marina. Must have hit three or four boats not counting mine. What an asshole. Probably drunk. Good riddance is all I can say.”

  ***

  As long as I was on the ocean side of the freeway, I decided to go have another look at what used to be the DiClemente Avocado warehouse, or more recently the warehouse for Guy Mallon Books and Caslon Oldestyle Press. A crew was there with a steam shovel and two roll-up Dumpsters from BFI Waste Disposal. I crawled under the yellow tape and approached a man in a tan suit who was standing by himself, studying papers on a clipboard he held in his left hand. When he saw me coming, he took off his mirrored glasses and tapped them against the clipboard. He held out his right hand. “Hi. I’m Joe Robinson, city fire department. You must be Guy Mallon.”

  “How did you guess?” I shook his hand.

  “Detective Macdonald described you.”

  “Short guy with a rainbow-colored face?”

  The man grinned. “Something like that. Mister Mallon, I wonder if I could get you to fill out a couple of forms for me.” He shuffled the papers on his clipboard and handed the bundle to me, with a ball-point pen clipped to the clasp. “Top three pages.”

  “What’s it for?” I asked.

  “Rough inventory and evaluation of what was destroyed. I understand you lost a lot of books.”

  “That’s about it,” I said. “As for a financial estimate of the loss, I’m afraid you’ll have to ask my partner. She’s the business part of the business.”

  “Where can I reach her?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Well, I guess for now if you could just fill in the parts you know and also I need you to sign a release, on page three, saying we can clean up your part of the debris.”

  I took the clipboard to the short wall in the front of the lot, where I sat down and checked a bunch of boxes.

  Insured? No.

  Insurance company? N/A

  Sole owner of the damaged property? In partnership with Carol Murphy.

  Total value of goods lost: Sorry. I just don’t know.

  I signed off on the mess and authorized the fire department to shovel it all into landfill.

  I walked the paperwork back to Joe Robinson and handed it to him. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I guess we’re not going to get a signature out of the other proprietor.”

  “Dead,” I said.

  “Basically,” he agreed. He consulted his papers and said, “Fritz Marburger, guy who owns this building. You know how to reach him?”

  “He’s in the phone book,” I said. “Lives at Casa Dorinda in Montecito.”

  “Doesn’t answer his phone,” he said.

  “Do you need him to fill out a form before you haul away what’s left of his building?” I asked.

  “Nothing much left to haul,” he said. “But still.” He handed me a card: Sergeant Joseph Robinson, SBFD. “If you see him, have him call me, okay?”

  I nodded. “Is Detective Macdonald still here?”

  “She left about an hour ago. She won’t be back this afternoon. She didn’t get any sleep last night. You want me to tell her—”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I have an appointment with her tomorrow morning.”

  ***

  I went to my office, where I found the phone answering machine blinking, telling me I had eleven calls. I sat down at my desk, took out a yellow pad, and pressed play.

  “Mister Mallon, this is Stephanie Roberts at the Santa Barbara News-Press. Please call me at—”

  “Guy, this is Rosa Macdonald. I called your home, but no answer. I guess you’re not at the office either. Okay, no biggie, I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.”

  “Mister Mallon, this is Stephanie at the New-Press again—”

  “Congratulations! You have been selected to receive—”

  “Guy, what the hell happened? This is Art Summers. Max told me he went by your warehouse this morning, and holy shit! Call me!”

  “Mister Mallon, Stephanie again. Listen, I—”

  “Mister Mallon, if you’re there, please pick up—”

  “Mister—”

  “Hi, Stephanie again. You can call me on my cell phone, 555-3242. I’m on a deadline, so please call right away, as soon as you get this message.”

  Okay, so I called Stephanie Roberts, and I got, “Hi this is Stephanie. Leave me a message, bye.”

  I hung up and threw her number away.

  No call from Carol.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon dusting the books in my collection of first editions, taking them off the shelf, one by one, and blowing the dust off the tops of the pages. I opened each book and ran my fingers over the title pages, often feeling the bite of letterpress printing on soft rag paper. I published a few of these volumes, but most of them were published by other houses, large and small. Every one of these books was made with love.

  My collection of post–World War II Western American poets was undisputedly the best private collection in the world in that limited field. Most of my books were in mint condition, a lot of them signed and numbered. Low numbers. Some even had uncut pages. Other book collectors envied me, and almost everybody else thought I was nuts. I didn’t care. My poets made me feel proud and dusting my books made me feel calm.

  Rosa Macdonald could wait until the next morning. By that time Bob Worsham would probably be back in Newport Beach. Open and shut case.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You what?”

  “I went down to the marina yesterday afternoon. I had this hunch, and I was right. I figured out who killed Roger Herndon and burned down the warehouse. But I wanted to check it out to be sure, so I went down to the marina and poked around.”

  “You what?”

  “Poked around. See, I wanted to be sure I was right. I mean, I could have been prejudiced by the fact that Bob Worsham tried to kill me on Labor Day, dumped a bunch of book cartons on me, which I’m sure he did on purpose. I figured I’d better go have a talk with him.”

  “You what?”

  “Relax, Rosa,” I said. “I didn’t get to talk to him, as it turned out. He skipped town at dawn, about the time you and I were eating breakfast. But he did it, all right. I mean, he was paid up to the end of September, but he left town just hours after the crimes. See what I mean? Now all you have to do is—”

  “Listen, you little pissant,” she said, “are you trying to ruin this investigation?”

  “No, I’m trying to help,” I said. “Maybe I should have talked to you first, but it was Sunday, and you needed a day off. So I—”

  “I’m the detective,” she told me. “Me. I am the detective, and this is my damn investigation. I’m the detective. You’re the little pissant.”

  “Hey,” I said. “What right do you have to bul
ly me around? Don’t you want me to cooperate?”

  Then she softened her face and her tone of voice. “What’s the matter. I hurt your feelings or something?”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m used to being reminded that I’m little.”

  “Awwww. Guy, I didn’t mean ‘little’ as in little. I meant ‘little’ as in little pissant.”

  “Pissant.”

  “Look, you probably want to think I’m Good Cop, as in Good Cop/Bad Cop, right?”

  I bit my lip and shook my head.

  “Well I’m not.”

  “I just wanted to ask the man a few questions,” I said. “But okay, I’ll leave that to you. His name is Robert Worsham, and he lives in Newport Beach. He’s probably home by now. You can get his address and phone number from the office at the Santa Barbara Marina. He’s still registered there, even if he did skip town. Here’s how I figure it—”

  “I’m not Good Cop,” she continued. “I’m not Bad Cop either. I’m a practical detective, which in my experience usually starts with being a friendly cop. I also happen to be the only member of the Santa Barbara Police Department who’s on speaking terms with the Santa Barbara Fire Department. And I’m good at my job. I’m an arson investigator, but I’ve also brought several related murder suspects to trial. This DiClemente Warehouse case is in good hands. I’m telling you, and I mean it: don’t fuck it up. Keep your damned mouth shut. Is that understood?”

  “There’s somebody at the Santa Barbara News-Press who’s trying to get in touch with me,” I said. “What do I tell her?”

  Rosa rolled her eyes heavenward. “Stephanie Roberts?”

  “That’s right. If I’m supposed to keep my mouth shut—”

  “You are unavailable for comment. Forget about getting your picture in the paper. If Stephanie needs to talk to somebody, tell her to call me. She knows my number.”

  “What will you tell her?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No. I mean I’ll tell her it’s none of her business.”

  “But the media has a right to inform—”

  “Tell me something, Mister Mallon,” Rosa said. “Will you tell me something?”

  “Sure,” I answered. “What do you want to know?”

  “Where were you Saturday night about ten o’clock?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” I said.

  “You little pissant. You listen to me. Do you want me to arrest you on suspicion of arson and murder? Huh?”

  “I didn’t do it,” I said. “I didn’t do either one.”

  She wiggled a pencil between two fingers, then brought it down till it was drumming a tattoo on her linoleum desktop. “You’re obstructing my investigation,” she said. “That much is true, and it’s a criminal offense. I can go through a lot of hoops to make you give up that information. But it would be much easier to just book your ass for murder.”

  I shook my head. “I promised a couple of friends I wouldn’t tell anyone about that evening, and they promised me the same thing. I’m sorry. I could talk to them and see if it’s okay with them if I—”

  “You’re not talking to anybody, remember? Keep your damn mouth shut. As far as you know there are no suspects, no known motives, no nothing. You never heard about a body, either, by the way. As far as you know, nobody was hurt in this fire. It was just a fire. Just a fire. Let me do the investigating. And don’t leave town. I mean it. When I need to get the information out of you I’ll bring you in and I’ll have the Bad Cop talk to you with a rubber hose. Just kidding.” She smiled, showing me for the first time that morning the gleam of her perfect big teeth.

  Then she folded a page back on a yellow pad and brought down the tip of her ball-point pen. “Okay, what was the name of this guy who left the marina yesterday morning?”

  ***

  My emotions over the next few days darted between boredom and panic. I spent the rest of Monday, and all of Tuesday and Wednesday in my office, reading newspapers that had no news, sorting mail for a business that was out of business, and listening to the phone ring and get answered by a machine.

  Stephanie Roberts called over and over until she finally announced, “Well, I guess you’re not near either of your phones. The answering machine at your home number isn’t working. You should get it fixed. What if somebody wanted to get in touch with you? Okay, okay. All I want is a little cooperation. Have a nice life.”

  Arthur Summers called a few more times, and then on Wednesday morning I decided to pick up while he was leaving another concerned message. “I’m here, Art.”

  “Jesus, Guy, where have you been? Is everything okay?”

  “Not really.”

  “No, I guess that was a foolish question. But you, you’re all right, other than the obvious?”

  “Other than that, I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything.”

  “Guy, what happened? How did the warehouse catch fire? The News-Press says arson’s being investigated. Is that true?”

  “Must be, if it’s in the News-Press.”

  “Who did it?” Art asked. “Guy, who did this thing to you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Yes, I see. But do you have any ideas?”

  “I am unavailable for comment.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “That,” I confirmed. “I’m sorry. Art, let me ask you something. Would you mind if I were to tell someone where we were last Saturday evening?”

  “Gee, Guy. I hope it doesn’t come to that. The university frowns on that sort of thing. I don’t want to be uncooperative, but if you can avoid it, I’d rather—”

  “Okay, skip it,” I said. “Maybe Max can vouch for me.”

  “I’ve talked to Max,” Art said. “I’m afraid he feels the same way. It’s just that—”

  “Never mind,” I said. “I don’t want anybody knowing about it either. Listen, I have a lot of things I have to take care of here. You wouldn’t believe the mess on my desk.”

  “I can imagine,” Arthur Summers said. “You know you have my support. You know that, right?”

  We said good-bye and hung up.

  ***

  Wednesday afternoon the phone rang, the machine picked up, and I heard the gravelly voice of Fritz Marburger, the former owner of the building that was no more: “Listen to me, Guy Mallon. If you can hear my voice, God damn it, pick up the God damn phone, excuse my French.”

  I did as I was told. “Okay, okay,” I said. “Hello, Fritz.”

  “Answer me this, Mallon,” he said. “Did you burn down my building?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Hell if I know,” I told him.

  “Shit.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  “Shit,” he said again. “All you lost was a few books.”

  “Which were worth more than that sorry excuse for a building,” I told him. “How’s Lorraine?”

  “She’s back at Betty Ford. Stupid bitch.”

  “Does she know about the fire?” I asked. “That the books are gone?”

  “Why do you think she’s back at Betty Ford?” I heard a choke in his voice.

  “Fritz, are you okay? You sound a little shaky.”

  “I’m okay, under the circumstances. I don’t give a french-fried fart about that building. But I’m going to get the bastard who burned up Lorraine’s books. I’m going to burn that bastard alive. It wasn’t you? You sure about that?”

  “Be reasonable,” I said.

  “Then who do you think it was?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I know you don’t know, Guy. I said who do you think?”

  “I am unavailable for comment. The police—”

  “Screw the police.”

  I wondered if he had met Rosa Macdonald. “I’m afraid I have nothing more to say to you, Fritz. Oh, except that I paid you rent for the whole
month of September, so you owe me a refund. Do you want me to send you a bill?”

  “Forget it,” he answered. “If you hear any more on this fire thing, you call me right away. I mean it. You understand that?”

  “I’m not an investigator,” I reminded him. “Besides, you’re hard to reach. You’re never home.”

  “I realize that, but I pick up my messages. You can leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

  I hung up.

  I decided that Rosa Macdonald couldn’t stop me from working, from being a publisher, someone with a business, even if the business was in the trash can. I had an obligation to take care of.

  I called Samuel Welch.

  “Guy,” he said when I had given him my name on the phone. “Jesus, man, I read the story in the paper. I’m so sorry. What the hell happened? I mean how did it happen?”

  “I don’t know,” I sang, a familiar tune by now. “Listen, Sam, we have a problem. I’m pretty much out of business for the foreseeable future.”

  “I hear you, man,” he said. “Bad luck for both of us. I guess I’ll have to look for another publisher.”

  “I can’t even give you the disk that contained all my keyboarding, typesetting, and design. That was destroyed in the fire, too.”

  “You still have my manuscript? And the contract.”

  “Yes.”

  “Throw them both away. I’ve got lots of copies of the manuscript, and the contract’s worthless. Just return that deposit, the money I paid you.”

  “That’s the thing, Sam,” I said. “I don’t have that kind of money anymore. I used your deposit to pay a printer’s bill, and I was expecting to pay for your book with income from the sale of Lorraine Evans’ book, and now there’s no books to sell, and I’m afraid I don’t know how to handle this.”

  “What about insurance?”

  “Nada. I don’t know how I can possibly pay you back.”

  Then I heard the famous Samuel Welch growl. “You’ll think of something,” he told me.

  ***

  Thursday morning I heard a knock on the glass front door of my office. The working part of the office was in the back of the storefront, behind a door. But the banging was loud enough to get through the door, so I went out into the storefront, which is where I kept my poetry collection on the shelves of what had once been a bookstore.