EQMM, August 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Yeah, now that you think about it.” Berwanger turned back to the class. “We asked him the usual questions about his movements the previous day. His alibi wasn't any better than Wesley's. The third guy was named Jasper Looper. Terrible name, huh? Of the three actors I talked to, he was the most pretentious. He also lived in the crummiest quarters, suffering for his art.” He turned to Foley, who was looking down his nose, haughtily disdainful. “So you are a Shakespearean actor, Mr. Looper?"

  "That is correct.” A deeper voice, more pointedly careful enunciation. “Indeed, that is what brought me here. The local Shakespeare festival has a high reputation in national theatrical circles. It was my belief that Ms. Dewitt could get me some work there. Unfortunately, she proved a poor judge of talent."

  "Did you read for her?"

  "I did not have the chance. She virtually threw me out of her office after one look at my resume."

  "When did you last see Martha Dewitt alive?"

  A sardonic smirk. “I only saw her alive, Detective. Are you by any chance trying to trap me? It was embarrassing the way I kept running into her at events. She never seemed to miss a first night in the theater or a gallery opening or anything else that passes for culture in this city. Apart from the Shakespeare festival, your city is an artistic wasteland. Martha Dewitt must have known that. Come to think of it, every event where I saw her offered free food and drink. I suspect that was her motivation for attending."

  "And was it yours?"

  "No, Detective. At most of these events, even the wine and cheese were beneath contempt. Still, I try to encourage genuine efforts in the arts even if they fall short. And they do. Usually. Far short."

  "Getting back to your resume—"

  "You've seen it?"

  "I have it right here, yes. It says you did Hamlet in Venice, California."

  "Quite true. Early in my career. I have done a great deal more since."

  "And you played the part of Hamlet himself?"

  "Certainly. If I had played Polonius, I would say I did Polonius, and if all I did was play Guildenstern, I certainly would not use the phrase ‘I did Hamlet.’ I have a respect for language, Detective, which is what drew me to the classics."

  "So this was a professional production?"

  "Look at the document more carefully, Detective. Did I claim it was a professional production?"

  "No, I don't guess you did. What kind of a production was it?"

  "I was a student at Venice High School at the time."

  "So it was a high-school production?"

  "To be perfectly accurate, which I attempt to be in all my endeavors, it was not precisely a production. More of a classroom exercise."

  "A classroom exercise?"

  "We read it in class. Miss Fukayama's English class."

  "And that's doing Hamlet?"

  "Certainly it is. Miss Fukayama picked me to read Hamlet's part because I was the best cold reader in the class. It was a signal honor. I was proud of it. I still am. And it was an experience that molded my future aspirations in the theater. That is why I included it in my resume."

  "Let me get this straight. You think an English-class reading belongs in a professional resume?"

  "Not always, perhaps. But career turning points, those events that launch one on one's lifelong course, deserve to be identified, celebrated, set apart. Had it not been for Miss Fukayama's class, I would not be where I am today."

  "And where are you exactly?"

  "Detective, I do not care for your tone! What exactly is your purpose in badger-ing me in this fashion? Am I under arrest? Am I to be detained?” Almost eagerly, “Should I call a lawyer?"

  Berwanger turned back to the class. “As you can see, Looper almost seemed to want to be arrested. He reminded me of one of those guys who walk into the station and confess to crimes just for attention. Not so much self-aggrandizing as self-Mirandizing.” No laugh. Was this really a creative-writing class? “I asked him the usual questions, and no, he didn't have an alibi for the night of the murder, either. So there we are.” Dramatic pause. “There was nothing left to do but confront the murderer."

  A female student in the second row gave the hoped-for amazed response: “You mean you knew who did it?"

  "Certainly. So should you after hearing everything, shouldn't they, Foley?"

  "They have all the clues,” Foley agreed.

  The class discussion indicated that at least half of them had been paying close attention. They tended to throw out Jasper Looper as comic relief. Some were suspicious of Gordon Wesley, but a young woman in the back row pooh-poohed the notion. “He was too busy toning his abs to have time to murder anybody. I've known too many guys like that."

  The favorite candidate was Philip Bunce.

  "I know why they like Bunce,” Foley said.

  "Why?"

  "Little mousy guy. Wouldn't hurt a fly. Classic least-suspected person."

  "Only this was real life, not a story, and you wouldn't want to make it that obvious if you were writing it, would you?"

  George, the disgruntled one, had his hand up. “Detective, I don't think you've really told us all the clues."

  Berwanger looked at Foley. “Well, maybe not all the clues. But plenty to spot the murderer."

  "Oh, sure,” the would-be cop said casually. “I figured out who did it early on. But I need to know a little more. Can I talk to one of the people you questioned?"

  Berwanger looked at Foley, who said, “Sure, why not? Which of the three?"

  "None of the three. I want to clarify something with the secretary, Winona Gladstone. Can I do that?"

  Foley returned to his young-woman persona.

  "Winona,” George said, “my name is Detective Grimaldi. I know you already talked to Detectives Berwanger and Foley, but I need to ask you a few more questions. When my colleagues interviewed you, how did it happen you had those three files on the actors with suspect resumes all ready to show them?"

  "Well, they said they heard Martha was worried about fake resumes, so I provided them. I mean, I'm like, just trying to help, you know?"

  "Yes, but at first you didn't volunteer the information that Martha Dewitt was concerned about that. When it was mentioned, you acted as if you'd forgotten all about it. And yet you had those three files on the actors, including their resumes, all ready in a neat little stack on your desk."

  Scornful laugh. “Oh, come on now. I put them together ‘cause Martha said to. She was, like, all drama-queen over her so-called epidemic of phony resumes. It was no biggie to me. I just forgot about it in the shock of hearing about her death. You can't accuse me of murder on that, Detective. That's totally lame."

  "I don't recall accusing you of anything, Winona."

  "Well, like, I mean, why else would you be asking these questions, you know?"

  "There is, however, one missing piece of evidence that Detectives Berwanger and Foley did not provide.” George gave the detectives a humorously reproachful look. “What was in your resume, Winona?"

  "My resume?"

  "I think you heard me. When you applied for the job here, didn't you fake your own qualifications?"

  "No, I didn't. I mean, like, it was different. Not the same thing at all."

  "What was different?"

  "Look, I'm, like, an ex-con, okay? But I'm going straight. And when you get out of jail and look for work, you don't put that in your resume, you know? I mean, they tell you that, people that counsel you on going straight. I said in my resume I did clerical work for the state, and when she asked me about it, I told her right out I was in prison. I made a mistake, and I paid for it, and now I'm making a new life. And she was, like, okay with it, you know?"

  "And what were you in jail for, Winona?"

  "Does that matter?"

  "It might, if you didn't tell Martha Dewitt what the charge was and she found out it was more serious than she thought. So what was it? Murder, maybe?"

  "It wasn't murder. Not really. I wouldn't kill anybo
dy. My boyfriend shot this convenience-store clerk, and ‘cause I was with him, they charged me with what they called felony murder."

  "And Ms. Dewitt knew that?"

  "I told her I did wrong but they got me on a technicality. And that's what it is, isn't it? A technicality?"

  "She was going to fire you, wasn't she? You killed her, didn't you?"

  Shocked outrage. “How could you think that?"

  "It was easy!"

  Though not confessing on the spot, Foley as Winona looked defeated and guilty.

  Berwanger nodded approval. “Pretty good, George.” He turned back to the class. “Of course, it wasn't just that. No case was ever solved on evidence that flimsy. We found the gun and traced it to her. A neighbor saw her and was able to identify her. When we looked into what she'd been convicted of, there was considerable doubt that the boyfriend actually held the gun that killed the convenience-store clerk. He may have taken the fall for her. Noble, huh? Anyway, don't you all think my partner and his nephew deserve a hand for their great performance today?"

  After bowing to the appreciative applause, Foley said with a smirk, “What do you mean, my nephew?"

  "Your sister's boy, right? I hadn't seen him since he was little, and at first I didn't recognize him. But when he said his name was Grimaldi, I remembered that's your brother-in-law's last name. But I thought the boy's name was Kevin."

  "Didn't like Kevin,” George said, “so I use my middle name now."

  "Anyway, I was already suspicious. You wanted to do the Dewitt case, Foley, and I didn't. But you knew your nephew was in the class we'd be talking to, and you didn't figure I'd remember him, so you two set this up between you. Did you expect me to believe you'd mention this old case and then just a few days later there'd be a perfect lead-in to it by pure coincidence? I'm not that dumb, partner!"

  Foley shrugged. “Coincidences happen."

  "But not in fiction, so don't expect these aspiring fiction writers to swallow it. Do you really want to be a cop, George?"

  "No. All those years as a student security intern burned me out as a law-enforcement professional. I want to be an actor. Or maybe a real-estate agent."

  "There's a difference?” l Copyright © 2009 by Jon L. Breen

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: THE PIRATE'S DEBT by Toni L. P. Kelner

  Here with another installment in her series for us featuring lawyering on the high seas (on a pirate vessel, no less!) is the versatile Toni Kelner. As this issue goes to press, we are await-ing the results of the voting for this year's Agatha Award, for which her story “Skull and Cross-Examinations” (EQMM 2/'08) is nominated. (See our Web site to read the story.) Ms. Kelner's novel Without Mercy, published last year by Five Star Press, was recently released as a mass-market paperback from Berkley Prime Crime.

  19 October 1680

  Port Royal, Jamaica

  Dearest Mother,

  I trust this letter finds you well, and assure you that, as I write this, I am in excellent health and spirits, despite a recent unexpected sea voyage. By unexpected, I don't mean Father's methods of coming to Oxford to collect me and then escorting me and my hastily packed belongings on board a ship bound for Port Royal so that I could establish the law practice he intended for me. That approach, though quite assertive, was relatively benign. At least, since you and my beloved sister have taken pains to assure me that my father's actions were for my best interest, I could scarcely believe otherwise.

  For this excursion, however, I had no such assurance. So when I was grabbed outside my very door, and a malodorous sack pulled over my head, I only briefly considered the possibility that Father was once again changing my life's course. Truly, I had little time for thought before a bludgeon was brought down on my head, and my senses fled.

  I trust I do not have to explain that this story has a happy outcome, Mother, or I would not be writing this letter. I doubt that such missives are allowed to emerge from the pearly gates of heaven, and certainly not from the warmer climes where Father expects me to spend eternity. So be re-assured on my behalf, and read on.

  When I came back to myself, the pain in my skull was such that the ground itself seemed to roil. Upon further reflection, I determined that the ground actually was moving, or rather the bed on which I lay was in motion. From that fact, I proceeded to the realization that I wasn't on a bed at all, but in a bunk, as the men of the sea term their sleeping facilities. In short, I was on board a ship.

  Since I have had some experience in waking up with a pounding in the head, though usually for more congenial reasons, I knew to be cautious as I sat up. I noted that I was not alone. A man was seated at a surprisingly ornate desk with his back to me. He was dressed in a handsome gold coat with emerald green trim, and wore a long black braid down his back.

  I hasten to add that cloth-of-gold coats and long black braids are not the usual fashion for the men of Jamaica, any more than they are at home in London, but such ostentation is favored by those men known as the Brethren of the Coast. In short, pirates.

  Courage, Mother! It was, after all, not the first time I had encountered pirates and, as you will remember, that previous encounter was not without profit. Though I could not be certain that this meeting would have the same result, at least that memory gave me some small comfort, and more was quick in coming.

  I cleared my throat, to let it be known that I was once more among the living—a condition I had every hope would be of long duration—and the man turned around to face me. To my astonishment, I recognized him. It was Captain Nathaniel Parker, the commander of the pirate vessel Brazen Mermaid, and the man who had at one time held me captive.

  I fancy that I am able to comport myself with courtesy in most situations, but in this case, I was momentarily at a loss for the proper conversational gambit. As it turned out, the point was moot. Though I attempted an innocuous “Good day,” my abduction had left my throat quite dry, and only a croak emerged.

  Captain Parker grasped the situation with admirable dispatch, and immediately poured a drink from a waiting decanter. I swallowed it gratefully, even more so when realizing that it was a quite nice vintage of wine. There are times when mild spirits achieve things that mere water cannot. This was most assuredly one of those times.

  Once I was reasonably sure my throat was again working as the Lord intended, I said, “Good day, Captain Parker."

  "And a fine morning to you, Mr. Ward,” he said, making a most elegant leg.

  I managed to rise, but the effort it took convinced me that returning his gesture would be unwise, so I settled for a gracious nod. “Seeing you again is a most unexpected pleasure."

  He laughed heartily. “I venture that it is unexpected, and not completely pleasurable. I beg your pardon for that. When I ordered my men to go fetch you, I should have taken more care in detailing how the job was to be done."

  I waved it aside as a trifle. Which it was, compared to the injuries often given at Parker's command. “May I infer that you wish to engage my services as a lawyer?” I was in fact praying that that was the case. As you may recall, Mother, when Parker and his men captured the ship on which I sailed from England, Parker asked me if I was married. Having deduced that he was forcibly recruiting only single men, while sparing the married ones, I took a small liberty with the truth. In short, I lied.

  However, as I've settled into the society of Port Royal, it has become obvious that I am quite unencumbered, and given that local pirates are known to have informants in town, it would not have been difficult for Parker to have discovered that fact. Since the men he'd previously asked to sign on had either agreed, or been tossed overboard, I was fearful that he'd decided to add me to his crew after all.

  Fortunately, Parker made no reference to my marital state. Instead, he said, “I find myself faced with a bit of a problem, and I was hoping that you could help me resolve it."

  "Then I fervently hope that I can do so. Pray, explain your dilemma."

 
He waved me to a chair before beginning.

  "We recently took possession of a ketch, and then had to decide what to do with the men aboard."

  In other words, Mother, the Brazen Mermaid had captured a ship, and then had to determine whether the captive sailors were to be killed, forced to become pirates, or set free.

  Parker continued. “We asked a few to join our crew, but since the captain had acted sensibly, I had intended to leave him and the rest of his crew on a nearby island where they'd have a fair chance of signaling a passing ship and making their way back to Port Royal."

  I translated this to mean that the beleaguered captain had not killed too many pirates in his defense, or destroyed any of the cargo, or in any way made a nuisance of himself. This may sound cowardly, but I assure you that in most cases it is the only sensible way to react when confronted by a pirate ship which has you outmanned and outgunned.

  Since Parker paused, I said, “That was most civil of you."

  "I've no fondness for killing for its own sake. Unfortunately, my plan went awry. It seems that one of my crew had once sailed with the defeated captain, and told tales of the man's mistreatment of him."

  This was no particular surprise. As you may know, Mother, the authority of a ship's captain over his crew is absolute, and abuse is all too common. I'm sure Father, with his classical view of himself as the paterfamilias, is familiar with such temptations.

  "I take it that there is an established precedent when such a reunion occurs,” I said.

  "Have you ever heard tell of keelhauling?"

  I could not hold back a shudder. Few men survive that particular punishment, and those who do often wish they had not.

  "Does the man wish to write a will?” I asked, because creating such documents is the bulk of my practice.

  "What he wants is to prove his innocence."

  "Indeed?” I said. “I suppose any man would, in such a situation, whether or not he was actually guilty. Perhaps even more so, if he were at fault."

  "There's no denying that he has every reason to lie, and I've no reason to doubt my crew, but...” Parker paused, most uncharacteristically for a man I'd known to be one of strong views. “The truth of the matter is, I knew the captain's father. He was a ship's captain, too, and I sailed under him before I joined the Brethren. He did me a service, of sorts, so I owe his son a debt of gratitude. Knowing how much sport the men had at the trial a few months back, I convinced them that another trial would be just as diverting."