One Lost Soul More: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 1)

by M. Glenn Graves

  “Well, well, the prodigal daughter has finally checked in. I was beginning to worry.”

  “About me? I’m touched. You stay out of my life for twenty-eight years and now you’re worried about me.”

  “Sarcasm is not as lovely a trait as you think. What’s up?”

  “I need some honesty and candor.”

  “Call someone else.”

  “Not joking here. I need to know specifically what you came across that gave you the clue that Craven Malone Industries had something to do with my father’s murder.”

  “Can’t divulge my sources.”

  “I know that. I’m not asking for sources. I’m asking for substance. You never told me what it was that made you think they had something to do with his death.”

  “We ran an investigation into Malone Industries, every company they owned. We checked all of the books, files, whatever data we could get our hands on. I was reviewing some of these because one of our guys was out sick at the time. Purely accidental. I was checking the info on the magazine, Lusty. Came across an expense item in the early seventies. Overnight accommodations at a motel for four people. Dan River, Virginia.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Give me the rest,” I said as I coordinated the dates with my father’s murder.

  “The nights’ lodging was on August 24, the year Bill Evans died. Four men. The line item was an expense check paid out to Bob LeFoy.”

  “How could you remember that?”

  “I’m intelligent. And I take good notes. I wrote that one down. Then I checked back and found that your father had been killed August 25th.”

  “Could be a coincidence,” I said not really believing an ounce of that.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bob LeFoy has developed into a hard-to-reach crime figure. Just thought you might want to check into it.”

  “And why didn’t you check it out?”

  “No reason. The books balanced. We found their records to be legal. I was the only one who was suspicious of that entry, for obvious reasons. Had nothing to go on. Seems to be all on the up and up as they say.”

  “Was that the only entry with Big Bob’s name attached?”

  “As far as we found. I figured that a good PI could run that one down.”

  “But you didn’t tell me that. You simply parked in front of Craven Malone Industries and let me go wandering into the night looking for ghosts.”

  “True. But you must have found something or you wouldn’t have called and asked the question.”

  “I don’t think I like you.”

  “Sure you do. We’re friends. We kill for each other.”

  “That sounds horrible.”

  “It does. But it’s true.”

  I was silent, reflecting on his statement.

  “You need anything else?” he said.

  “You have any business in Detroit the next few days?”

  “Might. You need me?”

  “Might. I’ll call. Thanks for the info as well as the candor.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He hung up.

  I called Rogers.

  “You have the name of the accountant for Lusty magazine?”

  “Hold on.”

  Seconds zipped by.

  “William R. McGinnis.”

  “How long has he been with the magazine?”

  “Two years.”

  “Who was before him?”

  Seconds passed.

  “Malcolm J. Wheesely, III. Retired in 2001.”

  “How long did he work there?”

  “Started in 1963 … close to thirty-eight years. Long enough to suit you?”

  “He’s my man. Get me an address. I’m going to see Malcolm.”

  53

  I rented a white Chevy Blazer for my visit to Mr. Wheesely. It was late morning and I was indulging in a sausage biscuit from somebody’s fast food chain as I followed the directions Rogers had given me to Malcolm Wheesely’s house in Oak Park, a little north of metro Detroit. Wheesely lived in a medium sized home on Westhampton Street in a tranquil neighborhood.

  Rogers told me that Mr. Wheesely worked for Joey Malone until he was 80 years old. He retired in 2001. I expected some old, white-headed geezer to totter to the door and yell at me because he was stone deaf.

  I pulled into the drive and there was no other vehicle in sight. The garage door was closed, so I had to assume that there was something in there. Two cats sat in the large picture window of the house, like bookends. The one on the left was all white. The other one, on my right, was black. They watched me all the way from my car to the door. Lookouts.

  A short, balding man opened the door. This man did not appear to be anywhere near 82 years old. Maybe Wheesely had a housemate. He seemed distantly polite.

  “Yes?” the man with large, black eyeglasses said.

  “I’m look for Malcolm Wheesely.”

  “You found him. How can I help you?”

  “I’m doing a story on the history of Lusty magazine and I wonder if I might talk with you about your years there,” I lied. Sounded plausible.

  “I don’t like to be quoted. I’m retired from there. Talk with someone else.”

  He started to close the door.

  “But you would be very helpful to me, if I could just have fifteen minutes of your time.”

  “Not interested, lady. There are plenty of others who will talk with you about that magazine.”

  He began to shut the door again.

  “Wait! Let me start again.”

  “You look like a nice lady. I am trying to be kind to you. I am not interested in talking with a reporter who is doing a story on my old employer.”

  “I’m not a reporter,” I said. “I’m a private investigator looking for the person who killed Joey Malone. I’m also investigating the murder of my father more than thrity years ago.”

  His whole expression changed. I detected a faint smile, but nothing that I could have sworn to.

  “You’re a real detective?”

  “Yes.”

  “Should have said that right off. Come in.”

  I followed him past a living room that was immaculate, down a hallway and into a back room where he obviously spent most of his time. It was paneled with dark, knotty pine and had a large sofa with matching chairs. There was a stereo system on one wall and a collection of compact disks on the shelves around the stereo. In the center of the stereo components was a television. He was listening to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

  This room was just off the kitchen, separated by a counter with three bar stools on the den side. It looked homey. There were paintings of ducks on the walls.

  “Have a seat, Miss –?”

  “Clancy Evans, Mr. Wheesely.”

  “Call me Malcolm. Now, what do you want to know?”

  “Why are you willing to talk to an investigator and not to a reporter?”

  “I do not like reporters. Look around. Do you see any magazines?”

  I looked. No magazines.

  “I do not like magazines. I read books. I used to read books about accounting. Now I read novels. A man like me has few pleasures in life. I was a number cruncher, a name that is a misnomer for my profession, but I understand what is intended. I was dedicated to my boss, Mr. Joey Malone, not to the magazine. He hired me in 1963. I had just lost my job and then found out about the interview with his magazine. I was really desperate, but I tried to act professional. It was tough to play it cool, as they say, but that’s what I did that day. And, I got the job. It was a good job, all things considered. I am indebted to him for giving me a job that lasted longer than anyone would have a right to expect. If I can help you find who killed him, then that would be the least I could to repay him what I owe him.”

  “Tell me about B.A. Dilworth.”

  “Oh, old Bad Ass Dilworth, I used to refer to her. Not to her face, mind you. I would have been fired for
such indiscretions. I said it to myself mostly.”

  “I take it you don’t have a high regard for her.”

  “Have you met her?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I need to explain this to you?”

  “No explanation, but I would like to hear your story.”

  “Forgive my manners, Miss Evans. Would you like some water to drink?”

  “Water would be fine, thanks.”

  He walked into the kitchen area and took two glasses, filled them with water from the sink.

  “Ice?”

  “Please.”

  He returned with the ice water, handed me one, and then sat back down on the sofa. I noticed a brown cat sitting on an ottoman next to the back window of the den. The cat was watching me intently.

  “That’s Asset,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  “The cat’s name is Asset. She’s my oldest. She has allowed me to live with her for close to twenty years.”

  “A real asset.”

  “That’s funny,” he said without laughing, “for a private investigator. I will just bet that you are real witty when you want to be.”

  My eyes met his and noted some type of twinkle in them. I raised my glass of water to him to acknowledge the compliment.

  “So, tell me how B.A. got to be editor.”

  “Oh, that story. Okay. Michael Yarks was the editor when I came along in ’63. He was a good editor in terms of layout and stuff like that, but he was no good at finances. Then along comes this feisty woman named Barbara Anderson Dilworth, fresh from her divorce settlement with Reginald Oswald Dilworth, Jr. and she wanted a job with the magazine. She was trained in journalism, but didn’t have much experience. She received a lot of money in the divorce with R.O., Jr., from the big Chicago newspaper family, and with her family connections, she was able to come on board with us as Assistant Editor.”

  “What family connections?”

  “Oh, some uncle of hers knew Mr. Malone. This uncle needs a favor and Mr. Malone obliges. Plus, B.A. Dilworth made a generous gift of $200,000 to the magazine. Since we were struggling then, that was a sizeable gesture on her part. Between family ties and giving that kind of money, it was easy to see that they would hire her and give her an office. They did. Mr. Malone did.”

  “Recall the uncle’s name?”

  “No. I have it in my files somewhere. I can look it up for you, if you like.”

  “That would be good. You can check on that later and give me a call.”

  I took out a business card that read Clancy Evans and had a phone number underneath the name. I wrote the name of the hotel and my room number on the back of the card. I handed it to him.

  He examined it closely, reading every word, at least twice. Methodical and complete.

  I drank some of my ice water and noticed that another cat, a gray one, had wandered into the den. It walked around with an air that belied its lowly estate. I watched it circle carefully behind the furniture, making its way over to my chair.

  “Meet Balance. She’s my baby. Only had her about two years now. Got her when I retired. I thought Balance was a perfect name for her and for me at that time in my life. I still have balance, too.”

  “Clever. So what happened to Michael Yarks?”

  “It took her two years, but with astute manipulation, she was able to undercut Mr. Yarks and finally Mr. Malone fired him. She did everything legal, mind you, just mean and hateful. She has always been mean and hateful. What she wants, she gets. Always. Behaves like a spoiled child, if you ask me. But then, no one ever asked me.”

  “Except me.”

  “Yes. You are the first,” he raised his water glass to me and offered a faint smile. A man of few pleasures.

  “Michael was desperate to hold on, so he did some questionable things, trying to cut costs. It all backfired on him, and then when she found out, well, it was over. She told Mr. Malone, and Michael was out. She was in.”

  The gray cat was now sitting on the window ledge above me and to my right. She was looking out the window at the birds in Malcolm’s back yard.

  “Say, Miss Evans, you want to make an aging man happy?”

  “Before I answer that, give me the devious idea you have.”

  “Oh, nothing French, mind you. I was thinking how nice it would be to go out to eat with an attractive young woman once before I die.”

  “You dying any time soon?”

  “Closer than I like to think.”

  “Sick?”

  “No, nothing like that. Just old. How about an early supper?”

  “Or a late lunch?”

  “Whichever you prefer.”

  “Sounds good to me. You name the place and I’ll drive,” I said.

  “I’ll name the place and drive,” he said. “I want you to go in style.”

  “What do you drive?”

  “1963 MG.”

  54

  Malcolm drove us to George and Harry’s Blue Café. The other kind of music Malcolm indulged in was jazz. The mid-afternoon crowd was light and the music was that slow, blues-side-of jazz that sounds so painful at times. If you were depressed, it was the type of music that would make you go home and load the gun.

  “May I order for both of us?” Malcolm said.

  It had been a long time since anyone had said that to me. In fact, the question took me all the way back to my childhood when my father took me to a really nice restaurant in Richmond and made the same proposal. Of course, I trusted my father and the meal was a delight to a young girl of nine. I didn’t know about Malcolm and his tastes.

  Oh well, you only live once.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Wheesely.”

  “Please, Miss Evans. Call me Malcolm. This is as close to a date as I shall ever come.”

  “Go for it, Malcolm.”

  He ordered the Red Snapper Key West for me and the Great Lakes Whitefish for himself. Then he told them to bring out both of the main entrees on serving dishes and to provide each of us with large, empty dinner plates. He ordered a bottle of White Zinfandel.

  “Now, while we wait, we can continue our talk. Next question.”

  “Okay. So B.A. gets Yarks fired and now she is in complete control.”

  “Not complete, just mild control. The next few years are hard ones. The magazine is growing, but not doing great. Mr. Malone paid a lot of attention to his personnel and the word in the office was that B.A. was a bitch. Excuse my language, Miss Evans, but it was true. Still is.”

  “If this is to be a date, Malcolm, you’ve got to call me Clancy.”

  “Clancy. Good name. Strong name. I like that name. Make a good name for a cat.”

  I hoped that was a compliment.

  “So, the office personnel were not overjoyed with the leadership style of Dilworth.”

  “An understatement. She was good at what she did. Better than Michael Yarks. But everyone hated her. Everyone. So, Mr. Malone decided that he would bring in some new people, interview them and get rid of her. He wanted to do this quietly.”

  The waiter brought our wine and some warm bread fresh from the oven.

  “Dilworth found out.”

  “Hard to keep the personnel quiet. I think they got so excited at the prospects of having another editor that, well, somehow she found out.”

  “Was Cyler Conroy working at the magazine by that point?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s been Mr. Malone’s assistant for a long time.”

  “You think he might have told Dilworth about the potential coup?”

  “Clever aren’t you?”

  “Not really. Just adding numbers, Malcolm. So tell me how she thwarted Mr. Malone.”

  “Specifics I do not know. I can only provide you with bits and pieces.”

  “Bits and pieces it is.”

  Our dinners arrived. The portions were extremely generous and they smelled wonderful. Maybe I was hungry.

  “Now, here are the rules. We will share everything. Like an old country buffet
type meal. You have to try both the Red Snapper and the Whitefish. You will have to trust me, Clancy. Both are exquisite.”

  “Who am I to break the rules?”

  I noticed that the twinkle was back in Malcolm’s eyes. The man was not altogether humorless.

  He was also a good judge of seafood. The snapper and Whitefish were excellent choices. The wine was perfect with them. I would never have paired the White Zin with the fish. Live and learn.

  “The bits and pieces, Malcolm?”

  “Oh, yes. I was enjoying this food so much I nearly forgot we had business to finish.”

  “Don’t make it sound so pleasure-less.”

  “You are right. It is a most enjoyable afternoon. Business and pleasure can be mixed.”

  “Often.”

  “Something happened down south to one of our photo suppliers. All I know is that I stopped sending money to the account marked ‘Virginia.’ Dilworth had a meeting with Mr. Malone. When she came out of that meeting, she was smiling, and I can tell you from firsthand experience, that was a rare thing to see around the office. Piranha as a rule do not smile.” He took a mouthful of Red Snapper and chewed with delight.

  “Unless they are about to eat someone for lunch,” I said.

  He nodded and pointed his fork at me without speaking. He was eating and enjoying it. Good to see a person with few pleasures so happy.

  “All this happened in the early seventies, right?”

  He stopped chewing for a moment and seemed to be deep in thought.

  “I would have to check my files, but I think you are right. I’ll need the specific date, if you have it. You know, so I can check through my records. But I do recall that this happened around the same time that Mr. Malone announced to the company that B.A. Dilworth was the permanent editor of the magazine.”

  “Amid cheers and great joy.”

  “Exactly. The office was crushed, but I figured we had endured it for a few years, we could endure it longer. I could anyway. Some of the folks quit, of course. There were a few like me who stuck it out.”

  “But none as long as you.”

  “No. I have great staying power.”

  “Plus you didn’t work directly for Dilworth.”

  “Plus that. I did have to deal with her, but I never really had many serious run-ins with her. She did her job and she allowed me to do mine. We were mutually exclusive, and I preferred it that way.”