The Doomsday Brunette

by John Zakour

  “Then she’s entitled to one.”

  “Well, she’s not exactly the one asking.”

  “What do you mean? She’s either asking or she’s not.”

  “You better take a look, sir. It’s, um sort of a legal gray area.”

  “No doubt the first of many,” HARV quipped.

  Tony and I followed Weber into the sitting room across the hallway where his partner was trying to get a statement from Threa. I say trying to because he wasn’t actually able to get a word in edgewise.

  “Should I spell it for you mental troglodytes or do you need me to paint you a picture in the mystical mists. A lawyer! We want a lawyer!”

  The request was very clear, as was the intent. The problem was that it wasn’t Threa who was asking. It was one of her nymphs.

  “LeFay, LeFee, hush now, both of you,” Threa said. “These gentlemen are just trying to help.”

  The six-inch high, silver-skinned nymphs stood on the table in front of Threa, fluttering their wings and hopping up and down like wet-footed frogs on an electrified floor. Both were slightly plump and a little long of nose. One wore a mini-dress that looked as though it was made from silver-tinted deerskin. The other had on frilly nightgown-like frock that was tattered at the edges, the new peasant look. They each had tiny knives in their belts and one had a tiny bow and arrow quiver slung over her shoulders.

  And did I mention that they were angry?

  “They’re trying to frame you, Mistress. It’s the wolves of man’s world trying to take down the supine phoenix of the Goddess.”

  “The supine phoenix?” HARV whispered.

  “Ms. Thompson…” Weber began.

  “Not another word, oppressor or you’ll get righteously slapped with a harassment suit and then cast into the fifth circle of the netherworld with the rest of your Y-chromosome carrying brethren.”

  “Yeah. You’ve probably thrown our poor sister-nymph to your dogs already.”

  “LeFaue! LeFaue,” shouted the other. “Fear not little sister, we’ll free you from shackles of the raised-toilet-seat heathens.”

  “Threa can’t you keep those things quiet for two nanos?” Twoa asked from the other side of the room.

  “I don’t control them, sister,” Threa said. “They’re familiars.”

  “More like annoyers,” HARV mumbled.

  “Good one,” I said. “Can I use that?”

  “When would you ever use that line again?”

  Detective Weber, scratched the back of his neck confusedly then shrugged his shoulders and turned to Tony for advice.

  “See what I mean, Captain? Ms. Thompson’s not lawyering up but her…companions are rather insistent.”

  “Ms. Thompson,” Tony said. “Are you requesting legal representation?”

  “Of course she is, you troll,” the first nymph (LeFay, I think) shouted.

  “Do you understand English,” said the second (LeFee), “or do you want us to draw you a glyph?”

  “I’m not requesting council, Captain,” Threa said softly. “I’ll help you in any way that I can.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” the nymphs shouted. “She’s in shock. She’s not responsible for her actions. She wants a team of lawyers and she wants them now.”

  Tony looked at Threa. She was silent and serene. Then he looked at the nymphs who fluttered, angry and defiant, just above the table.

  “I’ll be with you in just a nano, Ms. Thompson.”

  “Take your time, captain,” Threa responded.

  “No,” LeFay shouted. “Get your hairy male butt over here now.”

  “Yeah,” LeFee agreed. “Our mistress’ taxes pay your salary.”

  Tony turned toward Weber and I. The three of us huddled together and conferred quietly.

  “Threa herself clearly said that she didn’t want a lawyer,” he said.

  “But the…things won’t shut up about it.”

  “Then let the nymphs lawyer up,” I said. “You can interview Threa separately.”

  Weber shook his head.

  “The nymphs are her familiars. They never leave her.”

  “Never?”

  “We have to get her a lawyer.”

  “But Threa said that she didn’t want a lawyer.”

  “What if some judge decides that the nymphs are extensions of her person or something crazy like that?” Tony said. “She could make the claim that we denied her a lawyer.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Welcome to the world of the Thompson Quads. There are no rules here. This whole scene could be a trick to get whatever Threa says here declared inadmissible.”

  “Excuse me,” LeFay said. “But I don’t see how the three of you huddling up in some latent homosexual bonding formation is going to get my mistress a lawyer.”

  “So allow us to put this in terms that you’ll understand,” LeFee continued. “If you don’t get legal assistance on the vid by the time we count to three in Celtic then mistress Threa is riding the mist doorway out of your hairy-armed clutches.”

  “Yeah. And if you and your brethren oppressors try to stop her, she will bring all the power of Gaea’s heaven down upon your forward-sloping skulls. You just…”

  We never heard the rest because at that nano a heavy metal ice bucket clanked down over the two nymphs, covering them like a shell over chattering beans in a street hustler’s game.

  Tony, Weber, and I turned to see Twoa standing proudly over the bucket, her delicately powerful fist holding it in place as the nymphs rattled around inside.

  “Trust me, this is the only way to deal with these things,” she said. “I think my sister will answer your questions now. Isn’t that right, sister?”

  “Of course,” Threa said with a smile.”

  “Help, help,” the nymphs cried from within the bucket. “We’re being oppressed!”

  Just to cover our collective legal asses, we put a miniature vid phone in the bucket along with the nymphs and netted them with that new pay-service SharkNet, which offers streaming, interactive legal advice. Simply being connected to it constitutes legal representation in most provinces.

  Then we let the detectives handle the interview with Threa. Tony and I went back to the dining room to check on CSI. Tony conferred softly with his men just inside the door. I could tell that they wanted some privacy so I walked a few feet away and looked at some of the artwork in the hallway.

  One painting that caught my eye was of a pale-faced woman wearing a flowing fur-trimmed robe of ebon and blood red. Her face was turned askance, seductively hidden from the viewer. Her image was flat, a stylized mixture of realism and the abstract, with big shoulders and a trim waist. She was both sensual and haunting at once.

  “It's Erte,” Ona's computer said softly.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I apologize for intruding, sir,” the computer said. “I saw you staring at the painting. It's an original Erte. The late Dr. Thompson was very fond of his work.”

  “It's very nice,” I said.

  “Cue rehearsed speech on Erte,” HARV whispered.

  “Russian-born painter Romain de Tirtoff, called himself Erté after the French pronunciation of his initials. He was one of the foremost fashion and stage designers of the early twentieth century and painted for nearly four score years. He is perhaps best remembered today for the extravagant costumes and sets he designed for the Folies-Bergère in Paris. He is the father of what is now known as art deco and his work, as you can no doubt see, has had tremendous influence on today's styles of fashion, architecture and interior design.”

  And it was at that nano that the evening took another strange turn.

  “Zach,” Tony said, gently tapping me on the shoulder. I turned and saw him standing with an investigator slightly behind him. “CSI has found something.”

  “Is it new evidence?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “It’s new evidence but it might also be another crime.”
<
br />   “What does that mean?”

  “We’ve found another body,” the investigator said.

  6

  They led me to the far end of the dining room where we joined three other investigators who were huddled in a corner. Their backs were to us and they mumbled softly amongst themselves.

  “When did you find it?” Tony asked as we approached.

  “Just now,” the investigator said. “A trail of wine ran across the floor and went behind the cupboard. We moved the cupboard aside and found the body behind it.”

  “Behind the cupboard? It’s not dismembered is it?”

  “No, sir, it’s just really small.”

  “It’s what?”

  The investigators parted as Tony and I approached and we saw the body, if you could call it that, on the floor. It was small all right, about six inches from head to toe. It was also silver skinned and winged.

  “I’m guessing that this is Threa’s missing nymph,” Tony said.

  “So that’s what one looks like when it’s not talking.”

  Tony knelt down to take a closer look.

  “It’s soaked,” he said. “Is that wine?”

  “That’s what we assume,” the investigator replied. “It might have been poisoned as well.”

  “Or it might have just fallen into a full glass and drowned,” I said.

  “Bag it,” Tony said. “We’ll have the coroner run the tests.”

  “Is it evidence or another victim, Tony?” I asked.

  Tony paused for a nano.

  “I have no idea,” he said. “We’ll figure it out later. I sincerely hope your client is innocent, Zach.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because we’ll have a DOS-awful time putting her on trial if she isn’t. When was the last time you saw a celebrity convicted of anything?”

  “What say we cooperate on this one, Tony? Share information as we get it.”

  “Can’t do it, Zach. You’re working for a potential suspect.”

  “She’s one of several possible suspects right now. She’s cooperating with the investigation. Heck, she might even be a potential victim in all this.”

  “We’re going to look at her, Zach. You know that.”

  “I understand. But I’m going to be looking at everything else. I might find something that will be useful to you.”

  “You mean something that will clear your client?”

  “Something like that would be nice.”

  “Then, I’m sure you’ll be very diligent in delivering that information to us.”

  “Look,” I said. “I’m not asking to sit in on every interview and meeting. All I’m asking is for a heads up on the breaking news.”

  Tony looked away and shook his head gently. He does this a lot around me. I try not to take it personally.

  “You give me every bit of relevant information you find in this and I’ll keep you in the loop,” he said. “But only until Ona is charged. Then you’re cut off.”

  “You mean if Ona’s ever charged,” I said.

  “If or when.”

  I took his hand and shook it as he turned to head back to the scene.

  “It’s a deal. Thanks Tony.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said. “And I mean that. Don’t mention this to anyone. I get enough heat from the commissioner for just admitting I know you.”

  “He’s just jealous.”

  Tony shook his head again and rejoined his CSI team.

  “Aren’t you going to tell Captain Rickey about the symbols we found beneath Foraa’s hand?” HARV asked.

  “Not yet,” I said. “Not until I figure out what they mean.”

  “Concealing evidence,” HARV replied. “Oh, good. Your first felony of the evening.”

  “Not concealing just delaying,” I said. “The good news is that this night couldn't get any worse.”

  And sure enough, it did.

  7

  “You have an incoming call, boss,” HARV chimed, ever-so-properly from the speaker in my wrist interface.

  “Who would be calling at this hour of the morning?”

  “I think it’s your mother.”

  I smiled.

  “Yeah, right. Who is it really?”

  “Honest, boss. It’s a woman claiming to be your mother,” HARV said. “Come to think of it, you never told me that you had a mother. I think I’m insulted.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, I don’t think of her as a mother,” I said. “She’s more like a guilt-inducing, neurotic stranger who knows my number.”

  “And calls you Buttlebug?”

  “Yes she does,” I said. “And let us never speak of that again.”

  “Do you want to take the call or not?”

  I rubbed my forehead with the palm of my hand in an attempt to either wipe away my early morning headache or bring on a cerebral aneurysm and put myself into a coma (either one would have made talking to my Mom a little easier). In the end, I just let out a deep sigh and hit the receive button on the interface.

  “Mom?”

  Her thin face flashed onto the interface screen, smiling at first as though happy to see me.

  “Buttlebug! How are you?”

  “Mom, what did I say about calling me that?”

  “You’re right, I forgot. Sorry, honey. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. But do you know what time it is?”

  “It’s nearly eight. Don’t tell me you’re not up yet? Shame on you.”

  “It’s five, Mom. Time zones remember?”

  “Oh, that’s right. I’m sorry, Buttlebug…”

  “Mom…”

  “I mean Zach. I’m sorry, Zach. Oh, this isn’t going very well at all is it?”

  “Well, it’s kind of hard to tell since you haven’t said anything that makes sense yet.”

  I walked to the far wall by the entrance of the dining room, turned my back to the police investigators and hunched over the interface as much as I could.

  “Now why do you have to be hostile?” Mom said, the smile now gone from her face. “I said I was sorry.”

  “I’m not being hostile.”

  “Actually,” HARV whispered, “you do seem to be the aggressor in this conversation.”

  “Oh shut up.”

  “Now you see,” Mom said. “That’s hostile.”

  I sighed and turned away. My eyes fell to the Erte painting on the wall that I'd seen earlier and my mind was half drawn to it.

  “I wasn’t talking to you, Mom. I was talking to HARV.”

  “Oh, I see. You’d rather yell at some stranger than talk to your mother.”

  “Actually, right now, it’s a dead heat.”

  HARV and Mom (in unison): “What does that mean?”

  Something about the painting sparked me. I got the feeling that it was important to all of this but I couldn't properly wrap my mind around the thought.

  “Mom, is everything all right? You’re not in trouble, are you?”

  “I’m fine, Zach. Thank you for asking.”

  “Okay, so if there’s nothing else then I really need to go. I’m working right now.”

  “I understand, dear. I just wanted to touch base.”

  It wasn't the painting specifically that set me to wondering. It was something about it. Something it represented.

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Mom.”

  And it was something dancing just out of reach of my mind. It was annoying, like searching for a name that's on the tip of your tongue, or opening the fridge and not remembering why you did it. Annoying like…

  “I’ll let you go now.”

  “Thank you, Mom.”

  …like talking to my mother.

  “We can talk more when I get there.”

  “Great. Bye, Mom.”

  “Goodbye, Buttlebug. I mean Zach.”

  I hit the end transmission button and turned my attention back to the business of the painting. T
hen I heard HARV snicker inside my head.

  “Three, two, one…”

  My face dropped. “When she gets here?”

  “Vingo.”

  My inspiration slipped away for the nano, replaced by the exasperation and sheer terror that inevitably comes from a fast approaching mother.

  “DOS, call her back.”

  “Already done.”

  I hit the receive button on the interface and Mom’s face reappeared.

  “Yes, honey?”

  “What do you mean, ‘when you get here?’”

  “I’m coming to New Frisco. Didn’t I tell you that?”

  “No, you sort of skipped over that part.”

  “I’m sorry, what was I thinking? I’m coming to New Frisco.”

  “For what?”

  “It’s a business trip.”

  “What business?”

  “I don’t want to bore you with the details.”

  “Bore me, Mom. What business?”

  “Like I said, we’ll talk about it when I get there. I’ll see you in a day or two.”

  “Mom, this is not a good time. I’m on a case now.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself. See you soon, Buttlebug.”

  “Mom, wait…”

  Her image blinked off and HARV’s face popped onto the screen.

  “Well, that went well,” he said. “Should I call her back?”

  “No. Let’s wait until I calm down.”

  I lowered my head and rested it against the glass of the Erte painting. The inspiration that the artwork had once inspired within me had been savagely drowned like a piece of melba toast in a vat of chicken soup. The ominous feeling of maternal foreboding was sinking deeper inside me now with every passing nano, creeping into the marrow of my bones like a neurotic shadow of critical, emotionally stagnating, passive-aggressive doom.

  My mother was coming.

  “By the way,” HARV said, “don't let Ms. Thompson's computer catch you staring at the painting again. It's likely to give you another one of its Erte lectures.”

  As if an art history lecture from a computer could worry me now.

  But, oddly enough, HARV's jab spun my mind back to the spark of inspiration. I turned my gaze back to the painting and remembered why its presence had stirred me so.