EQMM, March-April 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Who'd ever have thought back then that she'd end up in England. Not that she'd exactly ended up yet—that was what the changes around the house and business and, yes, even the marriage were about. But there was still a deep comfort for Mallory in the making of the chili, much as there would be in the eating of it.

  And comfort was not the only pleasure she was getting from her cooking this day. It was particularly satisfying to feel free to put a lot of chili peppers into the pot. Making what the good ol’ boys call fire-house chili. And not just because that's how she liked it but because Charlie didn't like it that way.

  She could hear his bleatings now. “What is the point of making it so hot you can't taste the other flavours?” “Well, you may not be able to taste the other flavours but . . . “ “Don't pretend you do.” “Why on earth should I pretend?"

  Or he would say, “What am I supposed to eat?” “There's plenty of this for you.” “But it's inedible.” “So don't eat it.” “But—” “But but but . . . “ She'd heard him “but but but” like an outboard motor for most of her adult life.

  And it was “most.” Where did all that time go? How did she become as old as she was now, at forty . . . Forty-plus. Still, these days, forty was the new thirty, so it barely counted.

  And she wouldn't be making any rice. Rice with chili? No, no. Chili was for eating on its own. With a few crackers, crunched up on top of the bowl . . . Mmmm. It was hard to get proper saltines of the kind she was used to as a child, but water biscuits were pretty good.

  Life was pretty good, too. And it would be getting better.

  She heard the front door slam. Was it a slam? She stopped dicing peppers for a moment to think about what she'd heard. Yes, it was a slam. And that meant he'd probably worked it out. Well, not all of it, of course, but if there was a slam then he'd guessed the password. She felt herself chucking him under the chin and saying, “Who's a clever boy then?” He would so love that. . . . She smiled and resumed work with the sharp knife.

  Clump clump clump. Oh yes . . . He'd worked it out, all right. She glanced at the clock. It wasn't even six yet. And the chili was yet to simmer. A couple of hours would make it good. Or an hour, in this fast-food age.

  Mallory scooped the sliced and diced chili peppers into the pot. No going back now.

  She reached for the red wine. Most of it would go into the chili—another ingredient that her mother didn't use. But first she poured two glasses. Holding one, she turned to face the kitchen door. She leaned against the counter and sipped.

  The kitchen door slammed against the wall as Charlie pushed it open. “How dare you?” he raged. “How dare you?"

  "Care for some wine?” Mallory said. “I'm cooking but I'll be able to join you for a chat in a few minutes.” She didn't say, “Who's a clever boy?” but she thought it.

  * * * *

  "It's very simple,” Mallory said once she joined Charlie in the conservatory that overlooked the garden in the back.

  Although his glass was nearly empty Charlie did not seem much less agitated than when he came in. “It doesn't seem simple to me."

  "No?"

  "You're working, somehow, for Laura Banfield, are you not?"

  "Well, yes."

  "You've taken on a case from one of our regular clients without the grace, business propriety, or even basic courtesy to tell me?"

  "Only in a way.” She refilled his glass from a freshly opened bottle. “Do you like this? Montepulciano D'Abruzzo. It's country-rough, but I like it."

  "What on earth are you playing at, Mal? Our private life is one thing, but business is business and not a place for games. You know how much work Bertie Banfield puts our way, above and beyond what he brings himself."

  "Bertie Banfield is not my client."

  "Of course he is."

  "He is not."

  "Whose name is on the checks?"

  "Laura Banfield's."

  "Same thing."

  "It is not the same thing, Charles, which even with your English education and stunted cultural background I'd have thought you'd understand. Laura Banfield is paying me for work that I am doing for her."

  "When did she hire you?"

  "Before we get into details, I'll need you to confirm that this is privileged information."

  "Oh, for crying out loud."

  "Off the record or no record at all. I need you to promise—one of the serious promises, not the ones like your wedding vows—that you will not tell your client anything about my client that I do not give you specific permission to tell him."

  "He just wants to know where his wife is,” Charlie said, ignoring the personal dig.

  Mallory sipped from her wineglass. “I'd never cook with a wine I wouldn't drink."

  "All right," Charlie said. “Off the record. Even though I feel a right prat. Mind, I've had plenty of experience feeling that since I met you."

  "Decades of joy and delight,” Mallory said.

  "We have had our moments.” He lifted his glass and saluted her. Mallory nodded and they both drank.

  Then she said, “Laura Banfield wants her son to be reconciled with his father."

  "Winston? I thought he was lost in the mists of rebellion against his parents and hadn't been heard of for years.” He raised his eyebrows. “Decades."

  "Laura hired me to find him."

  "The hell you say. When was that?"

  "About three weeks ago."

  "Why you?"

  "You were out.” She tilted her head in a way that was as good as saying, with that woman.

  Charlie said, “And you kept this from me for three weeks? Honestly."

  Mallory shrugged.

  "And you managed to find Winston?"

  "People leave tracks. And he wasn't really hiding. Just denying. Finding him was not the hard part."

  "Then what was?"

  "Setting up circumstances in which father and son will be willing to meet, forgive, and form some kind of bond."

  "You're not talking about some New-Agey rebirthing thing, are you? Bertie wrapped up in a blanket with his grown-up son while you pour a bottle of Evian on them to recreate their respective mothers’ waters breaking?"

  "Calm yourself, Charles."

  "What, then?"

  "It hasn't been easy. Winston is not the kind of man a committed capitalist like Bertie Banfield would warm to naturally or understand. Winston is highly political, anarchistic, and anti-materialistic."

  "A terrorist?” Charlie frowned. “Sorry. I don't mean to be Bushy."

  "Winston's a militant hippie. He lives on a communal site—not far from here, in fact—in Wales. But he shares his father's bull-headed stubbornness—and that's Laura's phrase, not mine."

  "So establishment-father and anarchist-son are chalk and cheese. Why try to mix them now?"

  "Because Bertie is running out of time."

  "Is he ill? He never said."

  "He's running out of time in which he'll be able to understand. You've seen his lapses of memory for yourself. They're not just old age."

  * * * *

  "Chili. Great, Mal,” Spike said. “Thanks for bringing some down."

  Spike, the son of Charlie's father's gardener, had grown up in the house and alongside Charlie. In Charlie's father's will it was stipulated that Spike could live in the basement for as long as he wanted, but the provision was meant to keep Spike from ever feeling obliged to move. Which was just as well, because over the years he had become agoraphobic.

  With Spike's telephone and Internet skills, the disease wasn't much of an obstacle to most elements of ordinary life. He was happy to receive visitors and a covered area outside the basement door meant that post, packages, and takeaway food could be left easily. Over the twenty years during which Mallory had lived in the house, Spike had also become a help as Hayden Investigative Services grew and blossomed.

  "We do have a favour to ask,” Mallory said.

  "Ask away.” Spike took a chopstick that happened to be out on hi
s oak table and dipped it in. His face lit up through his bushy beard. “Mmmmm, it's got zing this time."

  "A couple of favours, actually. It has to do with a case."

  "Take a pew, guys.” Spike had an actual pew for visitors. “Not something to do with your splitting up, I hope,” he said as they sat. “I don't intend to make that any easier for you."

  "It's nothing to do with dissolution of our various unions. In fact it's a matter of bringing some people together."

  Spike found a soup spoon in a recess that wasn't visible to his guests. He wiped it on his sleeve. “Fire away."

  "We need you to help end the estrangement of a father and a son."

  After swallowing a mouthful, Spike managed an “Uh-huh."

  "We need you to make a couple of phone calls for us,” Mallory said, “using your gift for imitating voices."

  Spike found a bottle of water and drank. Then he said, “I am rather good at voices,” sounding very like Charlie.

  "That's nothing like me at all,” Charlie said.

  "That's nothing like me at all,” Spike said. He and Mallory laughed. So did Charlie, eventually.

  "The script will be roughly the same for each call. You'll tell the son that the father is ill. The son already knows it, because his mother's told him, but he's too stubborn to do anything unless he believes that his father wants to make peace before it's too late. And you'll also tell the father that the son is ill. Such a terrible tragedy in one so young. Well, not so young."

  "Won't the father find out he's been lied to?"

  "Not really—because the father is ill. Anyway, this is the scenario that the client believes will work. And she knows them better than we do."

  "Mmm,” Spike said.

  Mallory took a CD from her bag. “The client has recorded samples of each of the voices for you. Track one is Dad, track two is Sonny. The phone numbers and scripts are here too."

  "I get to eat first, though, right? While it's hot?"

  "Oh yes,” Mallory said. “While it's hot."

  "You guys staying? Cup of tea?"

  "I will, thanks, in case you have any questions,” Mallory said. “Charlie has a visit to make.” She turned to her husband. “Here's your script...."

  * * * *

  "Have you found her, Charlie?” Bertie Banfield said. The old man seemed agitated but excited.

  "She's ill, Bertie. That's the problem."

  "Ill? Laura? No! What's wrong with her? She's not dying, is she? She's not going to leave me, is she?"

  "She could be back tonight, Bertie. But she has a serious neurological condition."

  "Oh God. It's not . . . not . . . what'sitsname . . . with the memory?"

  "It's a kind of depression."

  "Oh, that's all right. There are pills for that."

  "It's not all right, Bertie."

  Banfield frowned.

  "It's why she left,” Charlie said. “And it's serious."

  "You said that. But you haven't told me what it's about."

  "It's about being cut off from her child, Bertie. From Winston."

  Banfield stiffened. “That's not a subject for discussion."

  "And from her grandchildren."

  Banfield's silence confirmed that this was the first he'd heard of the fact that he was a grandfather. “What grandchildren?” he said when he realised that staying silent wouldn't get Charlie to volunteer the information.

  "There are two. A boy three and a girl who'll have her first birthday in a couple of weeks."

  "Winston's a hypocrite now too, is he?” Banfield shook his head. “He swore he'd never bring children into this imperialist, capitalist hell-hole of a world."

  "Winston's changed, Bertie. And, maybe more to the point, Winston isn't married to the same woman now. Tulip, the new wife, wanted children."

  Banfield looked on in silence. His face was wrinkled in thought.

  "Laura has stuck with you all these years, Bertie."

  Banfield continued to stare.

  "But she says she will not come back.” Charlie waited for the words to sink in. They did. "Unless you make space for Winston, and his family."

  "Space?"

  "In your life. She wants them to visit. She wants you to be involved with them. She wants you to be at Zinnia's birthday party."

  "Why now? After all this time?"

  "Winston's not well, Bertie."

  "What's wrong with him?"

  "I don't know exactly. I don't know if he knows exactly either. There's not much access to medical treatment out where he lives. Not conventional medical treatment."

  Banfield sighed. Then sighed again. “Even if I were willing, Winston's not in my control. He would never acknowledge us—me—any more than I have him."

  "Suppose he did, though, Bertie."

  "He wouldn't."

  "Suppose he's changed enough to make the first move. Suppose I could get him to ring you."

  "Get him to ring me? Climb down off that bloody high horse of his? I'll believe that when I see it. Hear it, I mean. Hear it."

  "Suppose I could get him to ring you tonight. Suppose he were willing to agree to some kind of peace. Wouldn't you do that? For Laura's sake? And because that's the only way you're going to get her to come back home?"

  * * * *

  "We should do something for Spike,” Mallory said two nights later as she and Charlie sat in their belvedere sipping wine and watching the sun go down.

  "We should? You're the one with the big check coming in.” Charlie took the bottle. “More?"

  "I did more work for Laura than you did for Bertie, so naturally I earned more than you.” She held out her glass.

  "So Spike's gift will be paid for proportionally?” He filled her glass and topped up his own. “Of course, if we were a team, we'd split it fifty-fifty."

  She sipped. “Nothing's black and white, Charles. Any more than that sunset is."

  For a few moments they admired the sky and enjoyed the wine. Whatever the problems in their lives, they could be a whole lot worse off.

  "What are you saying?” Charlie asked.

  "I am going to pursue my own interests. I've got an idea for a business I want to set up. A business of my own."

  "What? A ladies’ detective agency?"

  "A talent agency. It'll be mostly for young musicians, but also for actors and other talent, if I find I can help them."

  "Starting from scratch? By yourself."

  "Yes."

  "Great." He sighed. “Good bloody luck."

  "We're neither of us ever going to go hungry. You don't have to continue with Hayden Investigative Services if you don't want to."

  Charlie said nothing.

  "Although of course you will."

  "Of course.” Charlie didn't feel he knew any other business. And besides, he liked it.

  "And since that's the case, I am willing to consider doing some agency work with you."

  "Really?"

  "But nothing that's boring or whoring. I won't serve papers or do endless surveillance, and I won't try to flog security systems to paranoid haves who are petrified of the world's have-nots."

  "But when things come up that are more complicated, less routine?” And more girlie, he thought. But he decided not to say it.

  "I'll consider anything interesting, if I'm not too busy. But I'm past selling my time just so I can wear a Rolex rather than a Swatch. Beyond a certain amount, money costs too much."

  They both drank.

  Mallory said, “I'm not telling you what to do. I'm just saying what I will do. If you're willing for me to work on that basis. And if you're not just going to carp at me all the time because I'm fed up advising people about window locks and cameras to spy on their nannies with."

  "Carp? Moi?"

  "Don't go all koi."

  After a moment, Charlie said, “Okay."

  "Okay?"

  "Okay."

  "Okay then.” She held out her wineglass. “Unless or until you become too i
nsufferable."

  "You already are insufferable. Good thing I'm such a flexible, forgiving soul. You could learn a lot from me, you know.” Charlie clinked his glass against Mallory's. “To the future. May it be interesting."

  Copyright © 2010 Michael Z. Lewin

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: THE MINISTRY OF WHISKY by Val McDermid

  * * * *

  Art by Laurie Harden

  * * * *

  Bestselling novelist Val McDermid's latest Dr. Tony Hill and Carol Jordan mystery, Fever of the Bone, the sixth in the series, came out in the U.S. in February, from Sphere (an imprint of Little, Brown). EQMM Readers will be familiar with the characters from our January issue, where they ap-peared in the story “Happy Holidays.” Many readers will also have seen the recent PBS Masterpiece Contemporary presentation of Val McDermid's A Place of Execution, which is now available on DVD.

  * * * *

  There's two things everybody knows about John French the minister—he likes a dram, and his wife won't have a drop in the house. That's why he spends as much time as possible out and about, making himself at home with his parishioners. Even the strictest teetotallers, the dry alcoholics, and the three English families understand they have to keep whisky in the house for the minister. Newcomers to the parish who don't know the drill get their first visit seasoned with a heavy-handed version of the wedding at Cana, complete with knowing winks and exaggerated gestures. If they don't get the message, Mr. French mentions in passing to one of the kirk elders that such-and-such a body doesn't seem to have much grasp of the rules of hospitality. Then the elder has a quiet word ahead of the minister's next pastoral visit. Trust me, most folks don't have to be told twice.

  Don't get me wrong. Mr. French is no drunk. I'm born and bred in Inverbiggin and I've never seen him the worse for drink. I know who the village drunks are and the minister isn't one of them. Okay, he maybe spends his life a bit blurred round the edges, but you can hardly blame him for that. We all need something to help us deal with life's little disappointments. And God knows, the minister has that to do 24/7. Because I don't think for a minute that Inverbiggin is where he planned to end up.