Fit To Curve (An Ellen and Geoffrey Fletcher Mystery Book 1)

by Bud Crawford

  Good lord, Ellen thought, watching her husband, he's left us, left the building. Walking with the group, looking with the group, but off on a visit to his home planet. Nothing for Geoff just was, it was suffused, infused and cross-luminated. She had no trouble comprehending the different levels he operated on, they were all reasonable enough. What she could never grasp was the simultaneity, all at once, sometimes. Like now. Luckily he wasn't operating heavy machinery or picking his way along a parapet. He probably looked normal to everyone but her. No, Stef saw it, too. She shared a smile and a shake of the head. Oh, there was Harold, waiting as they came down the steps. Ellen gestured with her head, just merge in. He nodded, and did so. The guide pretended she hadn't seen, went on walking and talking.

  ~

  James was early, as he'd meant to be. It gave him a chance to present Alistair with the sack of truffles. There were five pounds almost, several thousand dollars worth, given the quality and the season. The chef he'd lined up for Ellen had saved the grower's ass two years ago. Skip the details except to note the guy wasn't in jail. Meanwhile James had got a woman to sell her house, two thousand miles away, for the Chef's girlfriend, a deal that kept the chef's wife from leaving him. Other tendrils extended in other directions, but those were the main elements. No money changed hands, but balances were restored. The grower had asked only to be reassured the fungi would go to someone who knew their value. The answer to that was clear enough in Alistair's dazed, almost awed expression. He knew. Point, James. He owned Alistair, now, a little bit. One Marti's-worth, James hoped, jiggly brown sugar girl speckled with little dark dots.. He handed Toni the folded-over paper towel with the seeds, very special orchids for the very rare person who could propagate them successfully. It was a gesture of appreciation for her hospitality, and Alistair's. He was cleared to pitch his tent at Juniper House for the next hour or so. Could this day get better?

  The first guests to show for tea time were the two gents he hadn't met yesterday; they'd been sitting behind him. Sturdy middle size guys, his age, mid-thirties. Alistair introduced them, electrical contractors, Jerry and Dwight. Partners. Like gay? Lovers? Probably, the way they leaned in. He hadn't brought anything for them; would he have to come back? He felt for a minute like an eight-year-old at a birthday party. After a few minutes of conversation, he had some ideas. They weren't out, but they weren't working to cover up, here and now. It was a long-term relationship, pretty settled. Their company was in Raleigh. They'd have to be discrete, working construction. Weren't wearing any kind of jewelry. How about a pair of rings (white gold?), not identical, not obviously matching, but complimentary, completing each other somehow. That little shop next to the civic center could do it, both designing and making. Dwight was a literary guy, Jerry more sports and hard news, history. Food. Jerry was the cook, fairly serious about it. That opened possibilities. Well, he had enough, if an occasion presented, but no worry about today, no hurt feelings. It had been a silly thought.

  Other guests had been filing in. A watchful little crew-cut guy he hadn't seen before, Andy Ross, introduced himself and stopped to chat with Dwight and Jerry. James watched the family of four, they'd been over in the far corner yesterday. European? German? Odd energy about them, simultaneously exuberant and contained. They crossed, nodding but not speaking, back to their corner. The boy child pulled out a pack of cards and dealt a hand around the table. Used the whole deck. Bridge? Then the two shy ladies came, said hello to Alistair. Twins. Alistair tried to introduce them to James. From their amused smiles, he'd got the names wrong, but they didn't seem to mind. Not inclined to talk, they did a little unison bow and backed up to settle on a sofa behind a coffee table tucked under the stairs. He was missing something, he was being played. He looked more closely. Maybe they weren't twins, their features weren't really identical, but the clothing almost was. That was part of it. Something else was working. We know our own, James thought, smiling at them with real pleasure. Their eyes lifted to his. They had been not-watching him, and they smiled back.

  "Hello, James," Harold said, from behind him. "Have you come back to torment me with priceless coins?"

  "Hi, Harold, not only that. How are you?" James turned towards Harold. Where were the rest of them? Gone upstairs to refresh. Harold had spared himself the climb. "Let me show you the one I turned up this morning." He led Harold back to the cluster of chairs and love seats where he'd set up for his show. "Hi, Ellen, nice to see you again." Here came the group. He could feel the force, strong in him, yes.

  Alistair had brought in the tea pots and today's cakes. Geoffrey and Stephanie and the old lady joined him and Harold and Ellen. Exactly right, James was pleased. He nodded to Marti, who smiled at him, then looked away shyly, as she helped Alistair distribute the goodies. Ellen introduced him to Honoria Staedtler, most amazing shiny black eyes, quick, penetrating. Somebody who'd always know which cup the pea was under. He was glad he'd included her. It had been a coin-toss. Luckily none of what he needed to do here involved any sleight-of-hand, though she was probably no slouch in the sleight-of-mind department, either.

  ~

  Ross watched James from across the room, wide shoulders over the chair back. You bungled that little waltz, Andy. Should have ended up over there, where you might actually learn something. Nothing against our proudly gay boys here. They're okay, hell, in this town they're more normal than me. But they're not part of my story. On the other hand, I suppose I'm keeping cover better here. Let's see if I've got messages, yeah, I thought it had vibrated a couple times. These little cakes are like lemon pudding, except really sour. It was just him obviously, who thought Alistair tended to push it: take a good thing, and make too much of it. Everybody here worships the guy's food, he can do no wrong. For me, less is more, don't try so hard. But I've always been kind of meat-and-potatoes. Mostly it's pretty tasty, I'll admit, not exactly a hardship detail, just a little over-the-top. So Wallen wants me to wrap it up, Dallas says please give them something concrete; meanwhile another big accumulation in the Caymans, so it can't end yet. And, as usual, not a single damn specific suggestion. Fuck it. Let's eat cakes and canoodle with the queers, then go back to the office and clean up my paperwork.

  ~

  We have a conjurer here, Geoff thought. It's a full body presentation: voice tones, hand gestures, torso and head, leans and tilts. An integrated dynamic flow. The man is good. If he were a real chameleon he'd actually be changing color with each refocus. Green for Honoria, pink for Stef, blue for Harold. He'd started with Harold, adding two more coins, total of eight now, and finally naming a specific dollar figure: $7,900. Geoff had been startled, seemed like a lot of new coin for a few old coins. But Harold looked first pleased and relieved, then guilty.

  "That's not enough," Harold said, "that's way under catalog."

  "It's exactly enough," said James. "I didn't buy them, they were all side transactions in other events. The price I gave you leaves me comfortably ahead. If you're okay we have a deal good for both of us. I don't collect in these periods, and you do. I'd be happy to be rid of them. How could it be better?"

  Geoff realized James wasn't being rhetorical, he was inviting Harold to participate. Harold declined the opening, and just accepted the price.

  "Okay, James," he said, "you win. But it looks to me like I'm taking you to the cleaners." Harold lifted his hand to quiet James. "No, don't convince me any more. Just give me your word this is a deal you're happy with, that it doesn't leave me owing you a big favor you'll come to collect on someday."

  "It's perfect," James said. "The only thing I'd hope, if I did need your help sometime, you wouldn't be less inclined to give it because we did this."

  "Shall I write you a check?"

  "I'm not in a hurry. Wait till we're home. Easier for you to get your funds and for me to make a deposit."

  "That's true," Harold said. "Do you want to hold the coins?"

  "No, of course not, they're yours. I can quit worrying I'll lose them as I careen fr
om place to place. Now, Stephanie," his body arced towards her, his head tilted back. "I may be way out-of-line here, but I'd like you to accept a little token." He had slipped his hand in and out of his swag bag, and handed her a white envelope maybe three inches square.

  Stephanie was savoring the tart custard that topped the little triangles of shortbread, sweet acid between her tongue and palate. She was pleased Harold and James had concluded the deal. Harold wanted it so much, but he'd been all in a twist over James' refusal to give a price. "Me?" she said, swallowing. "Why me?"

  "I found something you might like, that's all. Nothing of any consequence, just a pretty thing for a pretty lady." James watched as she opened the envelope and slid out a shiny white card with a pair of earrings threaded through it.

  Stephanie looked at them carefully. Her ears were pierced, the earrings were on French hooks. Lucky guess? Had James actually noticed her ears? Would he have got clamp-ons if her ears weren't pierced? "Well, these are pretty," Stephanie said, "that much is true, but they're real jewelry, not dime-store stuff. It's too much, or are you going to give me a price, too?"

  "No price, sweet lady, no strings. I rarely monetise, I trade: favors, objects, good will. I like asymmetrical deals, where there's no way to count, where you just see how it feels. If both sides end up happy, it was a good deal."

  "So what's the deal here?" Stephanie asked. "I get earrings, what do you get?"

  "The pleasure of you being pleased."

  The earrings were simple, the hook was gold-filled, a gold-colored disk eight spikes out like sunrays, four spikes in to suspend a pencil-eraser-sized piece of beryl. Weird little touch of intimacy, Stephanie thought. Beryl is my birth stone. Nobody but teenaged girls know birthstones. She glanced around. Well, Ellen and Honoria were teenagers, once, they know. And now they know my birth-month. Harold and Geoff don't, not a clue. James is propositioning me, in front of everybody, invisibly and with complete deniability.

  Ellen guessed that James got the right stone from Stephanie's expression. So, will Stef be offended or flattered, refuse or accept? She's thanking him, and putting them on. So has she accepted his offer, or just put off responding, until it's explicit? What would I have done?

  Girl-talk here, Geoff thought, watching eyes flit around the table, frequency too high for thick male sensibilities. Secret code? Language of jewelry, like flowers or herbs? Birthstones? Maybe, do I know them? What little semi-gem is that one? The details heighten the effect, but the main business here is: girl accepts favor, thereby declares the way may be clear for the next step. Not committed, but not refused. Even when Harold finally looks up, stops brushing the coins through the bags with his fingertips, he's not thinking about earrings. He's millennia from here. So James completes his pass, first down. Four fresh chances to move the ball.

  "They're prettier than I thought they were," James said to Stephanie, "now I see them on."

  Honoria agreed, silently. The earrings were perfect. Stephanie was always pretty, but she looked suddenly like a page out of Vogue, faint flush down her throat. They were right for her skin, right for her hair, right for the oval of her face. We're in Provence when the troubadour comes to the castle and seduces the duchess right before the oblivious duke. Such a naughty man! Does he always get away with it, or is that perfect little backside speckled with scars from the shotguns of jealous husbands? Oh, dear! What's this, what's he handing me?

  "Ms Staedtler, when I saw this I knew it was already yours, just not yet delivered." James handed Honoria a small white box, about the size of the earring envelope, but around a half-inch deep.

  Do I even dare touch it? I become complicit the instant I do. This is horrible and delicious. Whatever has he found? She took the box and lifted the lid. It's a pendant. For a couple seconds she couldn't focus through the ornamentation. The pewter case was embellished with swirly filigree, such an odd-looking little thing. Oh dear, it's a Swiss-army knife for knitters. There was a small blade set behind a guard, an always ready thread-clipper. A tiny tape measure reeled out from the bottom. There was a telescoping little hook and a bodkin ensheathed from the top on the left, a tweezers on the right. A row of holes in scaled sizes ringed the perimeter, needle or yarn gauges? A round lens pivots out from behind. I must have this thing! What does that turn me into?

  "Oh, Mr. Richter," she said, "what a precious little tool! Wherever did you find this?"

  "In the odds-and-ends tray of an antique shop. Nothing else like it, just the one."

  "Well I would take great pleasure in reimbursing whatever you paid, it is a darling thing." Honoria snapped open the clasp of her handbag.

  "I could have sworn," James said, his eyes twinkling, "that you were paying very close attention to those earrings." He held his hand, palm down over her bag. "There was no money involved. I performed a small service for the shop owner and got that gizmo in exchange. Your knitting kit seemed the perfect place for it, no use at all to me. If years from now I ask you for an introduction to someone, or the name of a good dentist, maybe you'll oblige me. Everything has a trailing edge, but each new thing has to be assessed on it's own, while giving whatever weight to prior events you think they deserve."

  "You're making up a religion, here," Ellen said, "or a secular unified-field theory."

  "What works for me," James said, "clearly does not work for everyone. Seems like it could, but I know that isn't so."

  "That's why you have to explain?" Ellen asked.

  "Exactly, Ellen. I learned long ago that what's self-evident to me seems flat wrong to many people and dubious to most people. But I can make it work, for me, and for the people I trade with."

  "Are you just trying to get away from money?" Geoff asked.

  "No, I love money. I make it and spend it and invest it. Incredibly handy stuff." James leaned back. "But it isn't everything. The electric company, say, sells me electricity for cash, that's fine, quick and easy. But the deal gets richer if the excess from my windmill is sold back to them. Where things should be simple, where you don't want to engage your higher faculties, use dollars. But there can be so many more dimensions to a good trade, so many more things can get accomplished. People are challenged and animated."

  "So much work, though, keeping track of where you stand," Geoff said. "Instead of just taking your change and walking away, you've made a move in a chess game."

  "Sort of, I suppose," James said, "but the goal is to make the other guy win. You, too, but first the other guy, if only because the better he does, the better off you are."

  "I'm fine trading favors with close colleagues and friends," Ellen said. "But with everybody, all the time, there'd be no room for anything else. You'd never get any work done."

  James shook his head. "It is my work. But I have a transaction to propose to you. There are lots of strands taking off from them, but it has two elements. Number one, there's a shop just across the bridge in downtown that would be mightily pleased to read a favorable review in your article about Asheville." He held up his hand. "Wait for part two. There's an elusive gent whom I've persuaded to do an exclusive interview with you. His name's Harley Meachum, I understand he's a chef, who hasn't really spoken to anyone on the record since he got famous."

  "Meachum is the Greta Garbo of food. In my industry, he's the biggest catch out there. Why would he talk to me?"

  "It's enough, isn't it, that he will? He knows and likes your work, he feels you're the right choice. His call."

  "So let me see if I've got this. One of the biggest opportunities of my professional career is mine as long as I'm willing to abandon my professional standards and shoehorn a commercial message into my article?" Ellen felt the muscles in her shoulders and arms tighten, was she about to smash in pretty boy's face?

  "No. Absolutely, no." James spoke softly. "The interview is yours. Here's Meachum's cell number. Call him and make the arrangements. That's done. The other thing I'm just mentioning. What you do is up to you. If you've already been there, and hated
it, then that's it. If you check it out, and can't think of anything nice to say, that's fine, too. If you think it's not terrible, but not good enough for a mention, that's the end."

  "Get thee behind me, Satan," Ellen said. "I imagine you've heard that before." Geoff had opened his mouth. "No, don't say it, Geoff, just shut up. I don't need any other-hands."

  She glared at James, and at her husband. "My dilemma is this: can I trust my judgment enough, my professionalism, to visit this store, and not let it be swayed by the prize it's linked to? Would I be more critical than usual, unfairly overcompensating, or less critical trying to help them who helped you who helped me? James, this is nasty."

  "It just is," James said. "It's a convergence of things, before which you are an entirely free agent. You can decline the interview, I warned Meachum that was possible. Made him more inclined to talk to you, by the way, not less. And then you can do a great review of the Shop for Men, just to show me up. You can walk away from both. I set it in motion, but you have uncontested control, from here out. There are outcomes I prefer, but it isn't up to me."