by Lanyon, Josh
* * * * *
Tuesday afternoon Angus and I were sorting through a shipment from St. Martin’s Press when he found the card slipped in between some copies of Crime Scene.
“This must be for you.” He handed over a large, square envelope. I noticed the fingernails on both his little fingers were about two inches long. I tried to remember from my reading what that meant. Lead guitar or warlock? Or maybe just a nice normal cocaine addiction.
“Thanks.” A plain white greeting-sized envelope. I opened it, drew out the large In Sympathy card. Red roses and a pair of praying hands. My own hands were none too steady as I opened the card. The inscription was standard fare. I’d sent something similar to Robert’s father. Below in familiar black calligraphy someone had written:
Our acts our angels are —
For good or ill
“When did this come?”
Angus shrugged, having already lost interest.
“How long have those magazines been stacked there?”
“Since Saturday,” he breathed.
I contemplated the black script. There was something about those lines. They were from a poem, I thought. Not Shakespeare; I knew my Shakespeare pretty well, thanks to old Jason Leland and Murder Will Out. Bacon? Marlowe?
I tried to remember what the note on the roses had read. Something about all things in their time.
I slid the card back into the envelope. Glancing up I caught Angus watching me with an enigmatic expression.
Angus could have slipped the card in there, I realized, and then pretended to find it. Tara had also been standing in front of the counter when I ran upstairs to get sodas for the kids. And Riordan had been in the shop on Saturday. Hell, Bruce could have slipped it in yesterday. For that matter dozens of people had stood by the counter, by the magazines. It needn’t have been anyone I knew.
I had given Riordan the florist’s card so that he could double-check whether there had been a screw up. Had he bothered to confirm one way or the other?
With a word to Angus, I went into my office and dialed the number on the card Chan had left me that first morning. I got the Hollywood Area Homicide Unit. Neither Chan nor Riordan was available. I left a message.
After I hung up I sat there idly tapping the card against the clock on my desk.
It occurred to me that I hadn’t heard from Claude following our spat yesterday. That seemed odd.
It occurred to me that since the card had been left for me, there probably hadn’t been any mix-up at the florists. The roses with their cryptic message had also been intended for me.
It occurred to me that Tara was right about possible mice. There was definitely a peculiar odor permeating the shop. Here in the office it was quite pungent.
It occurred to me that I didn’t know what any of that meant, but I didn’t like it.
Chapter Eight
In the week since Robert had died he had gone from second page news to a blurb filling space between the Robinson-May and Nordstrom shoe ads. The investigation was “ongoing” in the police vernacular.
On Tuesday night the Partners in Crime writing group met again. The main topic was still Rob’s murder or, more accurately, the ensuing investigation. It seemed as though everyone had been visited by Chan and Riordan. I think for the most part they found it mildly titillating, and yet it did seem to me that I was being surreptitiously observed by my partners in crime. Was there something artificially eager in their conversation? Was there something awkward in the pauses?
Eight o’clock came and went with no sign of Claude. Grania’s little cobblestones (she swore they were granola cookies) were handed out (although I didn’t notice anyone risking their dental work on them), a gallon of coffee was poured, and the discussion moved from Robert to other topics.
“It’s not a crime film, but the worst movie I ever saw,” Max volunteered, “was Bwana Devil with Robert Stack.”
“I saw that,” Ted volunteered. “Sunday before last when I was waiting up for Jean.”
“I was home last Sunday,” Jean said instantly.
“Sunday evening before last, sugar pie.” Yes, he calls her “sugar pie,” and she calls him “honey bun.” I don’t get the pastry thing myself.
“I was home Sunday evening. It was Saturday evening I was out late,” she protested. “I went to the movies with a girl from the office,” she added for the rest of our benefit.
Oh yeah, the world famous I-was-at-the-cinema alibi. So had Jean been MIA on Sunday night or Saturday night? Not that it mattered to me, but it seemed to matter to Jean — and that in itself made it worth checking the previous week’s TV Guide to see what night Bwana Devil had been televised.
That’s how bad I had it. I was actually considering whether diminutive Jean could have slaughtered Robert. Never mind trivial considerations like motive. I mean, what possible motive could she have? I couldn’t remember Robert ever having spoken to her.
“Yeah,” Max was saying, apparently seeing nothing odd in Jean and Ted’s tiny disagreement over her alibi. “The best part is toward the end when the lions have eaten this native kid, and the white hunter’s wife screams at one of them, ‘animal!’ ”
“You know, that movie is based on a true story,” Jean informed Max.
Grania cut across his guffaws. “Are we going to wait all night for La Pierra?” Tonight she wore fatigue pants and a black chemise. Her wide mouth was outlined in poppy red. I wondered what the occasion was. Chapter meeting of her paramilitary cooking club?
Max stopped laughing and fixed her with his eye.
“It’s pretty damn rude. This is the Finches’ night,” Grania continued. “We all showed up for Homicide les Hommes or whatever it’s called.”
“Always thinking of others, eh, Toots?”
Grania flushed and tossed her head.
I wondered if this was the adult heterosexual version of pigtail pulling.
“We may as well get started,” I agreed with one last look at the door.
Max smirked, swiped the last cookie and crammed it in his mouth. I wondered if that crunching sound we all heard was the last of his fillings.
“Well, we re-wrote Chapter Two,” Jean began, handing copies around the circle.
Someone groaned. I hoped it wasn’t me. I wasn’t sure.
Jean said defensively, “Well, we thought Claude made some good points about angle of entry and blood spatter patterns on a raincoat. And even a highly disciplined mime probably would scream —”
“So where is La Pierra?” Max interrupted, propping his feet on the long table.
Ted looked irritated. “Who cares? Jean is talking.”
“Sorry, Jean.”
Jean handed Max a copy. She and Ted performed a little You-First-No-You-First routine and Jean finally plumped down in the Sheraton chair.
“Jean will read tonight,” Ted announced. He beamed at Jean.
Grania sighed in the manner of one exerting inhuman patience.
Jean read, and I sat there mechanically following along, all the while mentally turning over and over the Rubic cube of Claude’s absence. Was he still pissed off? Despite leaving two messages, I hadn’t heard from him since his phone call Sunday. That wasn’t like Claude. His sulks never lasted more than a few hours.
Jean had a soothing voice. Perfect for reading kids to sleep.
Absently I made notes in the margin. Robert had been killed in the alley outside his apartment. Why? Why not in the apartment? Because he didn’t bring his killer home with him? He had gone to meet someone. Yet he had come back to the Blue Parrot alone. Then, instead of looking for me, he had gone home. And someone had killed him out in the alley. What would lure Robert out into the alley?
Everyone turned to the next page. I followed suit.
Let’s say I was a homicidal maniac who wanted to kill Robert someplace where we could have a little privacy. How would I do that? I might go up to his door very late at night and say, Sorry about standing you up earlier but I had car t
rouble. In fact my piece of junk is parked out back blocking the alley right now.
And Robert, not famous for caution or second thoughts, would be happy that I’d turned up after all, and naturally offer to lend a hand, and out we would go.
And when it was over, I could drive away in my bloodstained clothes unseen. Robert hadn’t had time to put up much of a fight, but his attacker had not been willing to take any chances. Thumps and groans from the apartment next door might generate concern. Not so from an alley where bums and winos prowled.
I glanced up, caught Max staring at Grania intently. Feeling my gaze he gave me a cool look, turned to the manuscript he held. Grania pulled a pencil out of her hair, lined out what appeared to be a paragraph.
“Avery narrowed his eyes in thought at the inspector’s question,” read Jean. “Why would anyone want to kill a mime?”
“Go figure,” muttered Grania.
Max smothered a laugh.
* * * * *
When the meeting was over and my partners in crime had left, I felt restless. I went around locking and bolting every conceivable entryway. Then I went upstairs and prowled around my flat. I turned on the computer, logged on and realized my brain had less going on than my screen saver. I signed off again, and popped The Black Swan into the video machine, went into the kitchen, and started stacking dishes in the dishwasher.
I needed to keep busy, needed to avoid thinking in order to relax enough to go to sleep without resorting to chemicals. I filled the solitude with the rumble of the dishwasher and Tyrone Power and Maureen O’Hara in a “Tale of the Spanish Main — when villainy wore a sash.” I do like well-dressed villainy.
In the living room I stretched out on the floor and practiced deep breathing. I could feel the hard wood hitting all the sharps and angles of my bones. My spine felt kinked in a dozen places. Crikey. Middle-age was catching up to me. I stood with a groan and made myself go through the motions of my Tai Chi routine. Touch the South Wind. Touch the East Wind. The Tide Comes In and Out.
The funny thing was I did feel better after a few minutes. More tranquil. Like I could bend without breaking — emotionally and physically. I moved on to the hard style movements. Defy the Dragon. Defy the Leopard. Defy the Cops. I first started doing Tai Chi in college, and besides promoting a relaxed mental attitude — something I don’t come by naturally — it does result in greater flexibility, coordination, and balance. Which is not to say it’s everyone’s cup of tea. I couldn’t, for example, picture Detective Riordan giving up beating the shit out of a punching bag, or rowing frowning, sweat-streaked odometer miles in favor of Bird with the Folding Wing.
Thirty minutes and I headed for the shower. When I got out I noticed the light blinking on my answering machine. Abstracted as I’d been, it could have been flashing away all evening. I played back the message, but it was not Claude. Bruce Green had called. Despite his words he sounded unexpectedly diffident.
“Hi, Adrien. It’s Bruce. I was just wondering when you’d like to have dinner? Give me a call.”
I picked up the phone then slowly replaced it. Too late to call now. Besides ... the habit of solitude had become ingrained. Other than the occasional twinge of loneliness, my single status was as comfortable as a mole snuggled in its hole — and as safe. Did I really want to risk that hard-won equilibrium?
I thought of the long, painful months after Mel left.
Wandering into the kitchen, I made a glass of Ovaltine, trailed back to the sofa and propped my feet on the sofa arm, watching the tail end of The Black Swan. Idly, I flipped through the yearbook Tara had left me.
Tara was right. Robert had belonged to just about everything going. There he was, left from bottom with the Tennis Team. I was scrunched in right next to him, smiling at some long forgotten joke. I recalled that photo had been taken a few weeks before I’d gotten sick.
Another photo of Rob with the Journalism Club — and I knew by that familiar grin he had just made some crack. Everyone around him was laughing. I turned the page and there was old Robert squiring Homecoming Queen Brittany Greenwahl. Man, they looked young. She smelled like cheese macaroni, he’d said. I’d been in the hospital for the junior prom, but that started me remembering. Hadn’t there had been some scandal right before summer vacation? Something to do with....
I flipped back to the index, ran my finger down the Clubs & Activities. Something for everyone: Choral, Creative Writing … . Hey, how come I hadn’t joined the Creative Writing club? Rob must have had another plan for us.
Wait, I had missed it. I started with the “C”s again. There it was: Chess Club. I found the page, and there in nostalgic black and white, just like a chess set themselves, were the five would-be Bobby Fischers: Robert Hersey, Andrew Chin, Grant Landis, Richard Corday, Felice Burns, and Not Pictured — Adrien English.
For the longest time I sat there staring at the photo, a funny flutter in the pulse point at the base of my throat.
The Chess Club? How could I have forgotten?
But how the hell could Robert’s death have anything to do with what had happened back in high school?
Then again, both Robert and Rusty were dead. Murder and suicide. Two violent deaths. Surely that couldn’t be a coincidence, not with Robert found holding a chess piece.
I tried to imagine one member of the Chess Club stalking the others. Talk about bad losers. Talk about delayed reaction. It was nearly fifteen years since we’d graduated. I rubbed my forehead as though that could stimulate my memory. It all seemed so long ago. I probably remembered the games more clearly than the players.
Yeah, now that I thought about it, there had been some kind of dust up. Something that happened while I’d been ill. Something that even Robert had been close-mouthed about … .
I bolted upright at the clatter of trash cans in the alley below. Slapping shut the book, I walked back to the bedroom.
Pushing back the lace drapery, I stared down at the moonlit alley. Light lanced off the lids of the trash dumpsters against the back wall. Everything else was in shadow. I could just make out the edge of some trash cans stacked by the back entrance of the Thai restaurant next door. The trash cans were a point of contention. I didn’t get why my neighbors had to have smelly trash cans by their back entrance (and mine) when the dumpsters were just a few feet away. The food scraps in the cans attracted cats and stray dogs and bums.
As I watched, starting to feel silly, there was another clang of metal on metal and then the reverberation of a lid hitting the pavement. Something round and shiny rolled into view and fell over, like a miniature moon.
A shadow detached itself from the others. I had to wipe the glass where my breath was fogging. The figure in the alley stepped back and looked up. It wore a mask. A grinning skull.
I gripped the window sill as my heart lurched and began that frantic ticking like a turn signal about to short out. I must be clearly outlined by the hall light behind me. I ducked back, like 14 point lace would be useful concealment. I risked another look.
Not sharing my fear, the figure in the skull mask waved to me. It was bizarre. A cheery little salute from the image of death. As I stood there gaping, the dark-clad apparition turned and sprang away down the alley with un-apparition-like vigor.
Belatedly my brain kicked in. I scrambled across the bed, found the phone and called the police. Then I lay flat on the mattress and gave myself a chance to catch my breath while I waited for the squad car to come.
Damn.
Just calm down.
Relax.
When I felt better, I pulled out a notepad from the side table and jotted the names of the remaining members of the Chess Club.
Andrew Chin
Grant Landis
Felice Burns
Me
I remembered Felice pretty clearly. She had been exceptionally poised and unreasonably focused for a girl her age. I seemed to recollect that she had been headed for med school. She could have married, but she might use her maiden name
professionally. Perhaps I could track her through the AMA.
I barely remembered Andy Chin or Grant Landis. Chin, I thought, had been one of stronger players, Landis one of our weaker. My own membership in the Chess Club had been brief and unremarkable. The life span of the Chess Club itself had been brief and unremarkable, now that I thought about it. Still there was no other connection I could think of linking me and Robert to “The Royal Game.”
The fact Rusty was also connected to the Chess Club seemed conclusive to me.
At last the squad car arrived. The uniformed officers took my report and poked around the alley and side streets, their flashlights picking out empty corners and cardboard boxes. A stray cat rocketed out of its hiding place like a cartoon character. Lights went on in the building across the cinderblock wall.
Though inclined to think “the disturbance” was kids playing a prank, the cops promised to swing around the block once on their way back to patrolling.
After they drove off, it seemed very quiet. Up and down the boulevard, the neighboring businesses stood dark and silent. Inside my building, aged joints popped and creaked, settling for the night — that would be the architectural joints, though mine weren’t in much better shape.
I paced around, tried calling Claude. There was still no answer. I considered driving over there — I’d have liked the company — but I was too skittish to face the alley on my own.
Finally I fixed another cup of Ovaltine and curled on the sofa, rewinding The Black Swan.
* * * * *
By the next morning that indefinable bad smell in the shop had become a decidedly putrid stink.
“It smells like something died in here,” Angus complained.
