Holmes Sweet Holmes

by Dan Andriacco

  “Hey, I didn’t find the last one. But I did manage to tip you to it. I wasn’t hiding anything there, was I?” Gotcha!

  “No, I scooped the world on quite a story, thanks to you. I am grateful, Jeff. That’s why I left you the message. I’ve been trying to follow up in person. I tried your office phone several times, as well as the cell, but it was always busy.”

  “I was dealing with your competitors trying to catch up to what you already had in The Observer. I also returned a call from your ace crime reporter and brought him up to date as far as I could. I’m really sorry I didn’t call you back but I’ve been running all day.”

  “Okay, sure, I get it. Well, how about tonight?”

  “What about tonight?”

  “Didn’t you even find time to listen to my message?” She sounded hurt. “I wanted to make you dinner tonight.”

  This was not going at all well. I took a deep breath.

  “I’d love that, Lyn, I really would, it sounds great, thanks, but I’m afraid I’m tied up on business tonight.” I knew I was babbling but I couldn’t stop myself.

  “Monkey business, no doubt.” She was keeping it light, but I could tell that she felt about as unhappy as I did.

  “You didn’t ask,” I said, “but I agreed to show Peter Gerard’s executive assistant around Erin. Then I have to go to the lecture, of course.”

  “Of course. This assistant, is she’s pretty?”

  “You’re assuming facts not in evidence.” I read that in a book somewhere, maybe a John Grisham novel. “I never said anything about gender.”

  “You didn’t need to. Your voice gave you away. You always sound more southern when you’re uncomfortable. Elementary, my dear Watson.” Oh, no - not you, too! “So back to my original question: Is she pretty?”

  “Well, you know, that’s a very subjective question.”

  “So what do you think?”

  When all else fails, tell the truth. “Yeah, I think she’s pretty.”

  “Well, try to have fun.”

  It was hard to put a feeling to the timbre in her voice. Was she disappointed? Hurt again? Or maybe she was just at sea because for years I’d been there for her whenever she expected me. You’re the one who broke it off seven months ago. Lynda. Things haven’t been the same between us since, even though I’ve tried to change. Still, I wished I could be there for her now. Why had I agreed to squire Quandra Hall around anyway? Oh, yeah: Because if anybody would know who would have a reason to kill her boss, it would be her.

  I wanted to tell Lynda that I’d rather be with her, and that I’d think of her the whole time I was with Quandra. And that was totally true. But I knew it would just sound like talk, and I do too much of that. I settled for,

  “Could I have a rain check on that dinner?”

  “We’ll see.” I always hated it when my parents said that.

  After an uneasy farewell, I hung up the telephone, dried myself off, and picked up the cell phone to listen to the voicemail message Lynda had left me:

  “Hi, Jeff. Sorry I missed you. I wanted to tell you how much I appreciated what you did last night, making that call. It meant a lot to me. I mean, not just because I got the story, but because I know you did it for me. It can’t have been easy for you, putting me above your job. I bet you’re having a tough day today, too, with all the media calls you must be getting. I thought maybe you’d like to have a relaxing dinner at my place tonight, say about six o’clock. I’ll cook. We haven’t done that in a long time. Just let me know. Um, I love you. Bye.”

  After listening to the message four more times, I finally got dressed. I managed not to cry, but that didn’t mean my heart wasn’t breaking.

  Double Takes

  Dusk was gathering by the time I headed for the address given me by Lem Carpenter, the Double Takes man. It was the time of the year when you’re still surprised by how early it gets dark, when the wind blows sere yellow leaves in your path and you know the long, cold winter can’t be far behind.

  It already felt more like Halloween than the week before my birthday. I shivered in the dusk and got into my lime green Volkswagen New Beetle.

  I didn’t remember much detail about the story on Double Takes that I’d read in the newspaper. But I knew that the guy who ran it - presumably this Lem Carpenter - maintained a whole stable of lookalikes of famous people that he hired out to attend parties or store openings. That much stuck in my mind because I’d written myself a note on it for my idea files. I figured it would be a great starting point for a mystery.

  You had that right, I told myself glumly.

  I wondered why Mac apparently didn’t remember the story. He remembers everything else, especially oddities, and he’s an omnivorous reader, so he probably saw the article.

  But for all his bluster about solving the murder, Mac didn’t seem to be taking any action. He seemingly hadn’t done anything but raise an eyebrow about Heidi, for instance. If Mac’s secretary was supposed to have set up Peter Gerard’s appearance at that deadly dinner last night and yet the real Gerard never knew anything about it, then the mystery of how the double got slipped in wasn’t much of a mystery anymore. Heidi either hired the man or was involved with whoever did - Ralph Pendergast, maybe. It could have been a plot to embarrass Mac - not with murder, of course. I could suspect Heidi and Ralph of a lot, but not that. At least not just to hurt Mac. There would have to have been a lot stronger motive.

  Maybe whoever hired Rodney Stonecipher - if somebody really did - wasn’t even involved in the murder at all. But that person would certainly have crucial information that could lead to the killer.

  I’d gotten about this far in my thinking when I found the address I was looking for. It was in the country, where you’re apt to find a handsome new four-bedroom domicile next to a sprawling lot with a mobile home in the middle. Lem Carpenter’s place was somewhere in between, a modest brick ranch not quite ready for a paint job on the trim. The weedy little lawn was about two days past needing one of the last mowings of the season. A burnt orange pickup truck, its rust color blending in with real rust, sat in the driveway. There was no garage.

  I rang the doorbell and picked up a wrapped newspaper that lay on the porch.

  The guy who answered had salt-and-pepper hair, long and stringy and gathered into braids. He wore a sweatband across his forehead. The neck sticking out between his T-shirt and his beard was leathery.

  It was dumb, but I couldn’t help blurting out, “You look just like -”

  “Yeah, I know.” That high-pitched, raspy voice sounded like Willie Nelson, too.

  “I’m Cody.” I handed him the newspaper.

  “A plainclothesman? I was expecting somebody in uniform. Come on in and tell me what this is all about.”

  I’ve been a bachelor long enough to know bachelor digs when I see them. Carpenter’s house was reasonably clean, but in disarray. The living room was dominated by a big-screen TV, a sofa, a couple of chairs and a potted palm. A pair of socks and yesterday’s newspaper completed the décor. Carpenter, padding about in bare feet, saw me looking at the socks and picked them up. He threw today’s Observer on top of the old one without giving it a glance. I wouldn’t tell Lynda that, assuming she was still speaking to me.

  “House needs straightening up,” he said, sitting down on the couch to put the socks on. “It always does.”

  There was a framed color photo of Willie Nelson on the wall behind him. It was inscribed “To my friend Lem Carpenter.”

  “Is that the real Willie Nelson in the picture or is that you?”

  Carpenter smiled. “I’ll never tell. We’re like twins, right? That’s what got me started on this Double Takes gig. I let my beard grow out when I was in the hospital a couple of years ago for a heart operation. Everybody started telling me I looked like Willie. It seemed to me
there could be money in a thing like that. So I did a little advertising and found out that people really were willing to pay me to play Willie Nelson. And it doesn’t matter that I can’t sing a note!”

  “Now you have other celebrity doubles working for you?”

  “Yeah, that’s newer. It started when I was hired for a flea market appearance last year. I could see right away that the owner, Fritz Gettler, would look just like Tom Selleck if he’d shorten his hair and grow a mustache. I talked him into doing it and started arranging bookings for him. He gets paid, I take a cut, everybody’s happy. Things are going good. I’m thinking I might even retire from the Post Office next year and do this full time. Let me show you something.”

  Carpenter led me into the dining area, where papers were scattered across the top of an old oak table. “My office,” he announced. He picked up a little plastic box full of file cards. “You wouldn’t believe who I have in here. There’s George Clooney, Leonardo DiCaprio, Sarah Jessica Parker, Lady Gaga -”

  “Peter Gerard.”

  “Yeah, I have him. Hey, is this about an engagement, like for the Policeman’s Ball or something?” His eyes lit up. Up to now I’d been wondering if he were babbling on about Double Takes because he was afraid to get to the reason for my visit or if he just liked to talk. Now I realized it was the entrepreneur speaking. He was excited about his little business, and even more excited at the prospect of a job.

  “Is your Peter Gerard a guy named Rodney Stonecipher?”

  “Yeah. Why?” Understandably, Carpenter evinced a certain wariness now.

  “Because he isn’t going to be making any more gigs this side of Paradise. He was murdered last night.”

  “You’re kidding! But he was on a job!” Carpenter sunk down into a dining room chair, his shoulders sagging.

  “Yeah, he was impersonating Peter Gerard when he was killed,” I said. “That’s why I want to talk to you. It’s a little hard to believe you didn’t know about this murder already. It was plastered all over the newspapers, television, radio, and the Internet.”

  “I didn’t see the damned newspaper - you just gave it to me yourself. Look, I work nights at the Post Office. I only got out of bed right before I called you.”

  He was convincing, but then he was an actor of sorts. I was quite willing to believe that Willie Nelson didn’t know a thing about Rodney Stonecipher’s demise, but the jury was still out on Lem Carpenter.

  I gave him a quick rundown on what had happened. “So you see, we’re not sure if the murderer was trying to kill Peter Gerard or if Rodney Stonecipher was the intended victim all along. But if Stonecipher was the target, the killer almost had to be somebody who knew in advance where he would be last night.”

  Carpenter caught the implication right away, and sat up with a jerk. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t have any reason to hurt the guy. He was making me money.”

  “That doesn’t mean you didn’t have some other reason to want him dead. Money isn’t everything.” Sometimes I talk in platitudes when I’m excited.

  “Isn’t it?” Carpenter asked. “I guess you’ve never needed any. Besides, I barely knew the guy.”

  “Then how did he get hooked up with you in this doubles scam?”

  “It isn’t a scam.” Carpenter did injured dignity very well. “This is a perfectly legitimate operation from start to finish. My performers won’t do anything where fraudulent intent is involved.”

  “Maybe that’s a matter of opinion. I read a couple of months ago that Kim Kardashian was suing Old Navy for using somebody that looks like her in commercial on YouTube. She said her publicity rights were violated.”

  “Yeah? Well, I haven’t been sued and I haven’t violated the law.”

  “So Stonecipher is an honest corpse and you barely knew him, that’s what you’re saying?”

  “Look, Detective, I met the guy in a Kroger checkout lane. He was standing right next to some magazine with a full-color picture of Peter Gerard on the cover. I knew right away if this guy trimmed up his hair a bit and got it curled he’s look just like Gerard. So I asked him to be one of my performers.”

  “And he went for it, just like that?”

  “Naw, he turned me down. I followed him all the way to his car trying to talk him into it, but he just wasn’t having any. I finally got him to take my business card anyway. Then a week or so later, out of the blue, he called back and said he’d give it a try. Last night was only his second engagement. A theater manager hired him to appear at the local premier of that Bourbon Street flick.”

  It all sounded plausible enough. I’d found someone who had known the reclusive Rodney Stonecipher, but not well enough to be of much help, it seemed. I wondered why Stonecipher had changed his mind about playing Peter Gerard. I asked Carpenter, but he said he had no idea.

  “Who else might have known where Stonecipher was going to be last night?” I asked. “Do you have any ideas on that?”

  Carpenter shrugged, Willie-like. “He could have told anybody, I guess, unless the client asked him to keep it secret. My performers are told to follow the client’s instructions to the letter.”

  The client had known. That’s what had brought me here. The minute I remembered the story about Double Takes, I knew that it could mean more than just the answer to the question of what Stonecipher was doing at that dinner in Peter Gerard’s place. If he was there because he’d been hired - not because he was playing out some scenario of his own - then the person who hired him could be the key to the whole puzzle, guilty or innocent.

  “Who was the client?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell you that,” Lem Carpenter said. “Client confidentiality.”

  “Knock it off. You know that has no legal standing. You’re not a lawyer.”

  “That may be, but you’re going to have to produce a court order or some fancy legal paperwork to get me to talk. I have a reputation for discretion to protect here.”

  I pulled a bill out of my wall. “This is legal and it’s paper. Is it fancy enough for you?” Max Cutter would have flashed a C-note and had the guy singing La Traviata in about ten seconds flat. I held out a ten-dollar bill.

  “About half as fancy as I’d like.”

  So I was right about your ethics, just wrong about your price. I pulled another ten out of my wallet. Carpenter snatched it like an aardvark snapping up ants.

  “All right, then, but you didn’t hear it from me. The client who hired Stonecipher was a professor over at the college, a fellow named McCabe, Sebastian McCabe.”

  Questioning Quandra

  “Quandra is an unusual name,” I told her. “I like it.”

  “Thanks. I made it up myself. My parents named me Mary Beth, but that was a little too wholesome for a girl like me.”

  She grinned wickedly and sipped her iced mocha from a straw. Her lavish chestnut curls swept forward as she moved her head. Her long fingernails were painted a bold scarlet, matching her full red lips.

  Quandra was decked out in a form-fitting white turtleneck, designer jeans, and high-heeled leather boots. When Lynda wears heels she’s almost as tall as I am. Quandra was a bit shorter, even in the boots. But she looked great and smelled great, wearing some no-doubt expensive perfume, maybe Birth of Venus. Sitting across from this vision of loveliness, I felt miserable. I was missing Lynda and I wanted to be talking to Mac, preferably with a tire iron in my hand.

  I was still in shock at what I’d learned from Lem Carpenter. Mac had hired the dead man and he must have arranged the dinner, just as I had originally assumed. The implication that Heidi had been responsible for any part of it was just so much smoke. What game was he playing this time? I’d never find out sitting here.

  I’d brought Quandra to Beans & Books, the coffee house and book store on Main Street, after a quick tour of the town. It had seemed the
best place for dinner by process of elimination. Ricolleti’s Ristorante had the best food in town at the highest prices, and that would seem too much like a date, which this wasn’t. Was it? Daniel’s Apothecary serves dinner, but I didn’t want to hear sophisticated gushing from Quandra about how adorably quaint and/or retro it was. Bobbie McGee’s Sports Bar is too loud for real conversation. There were a few other options, but I like Beans & Books. The food is basic, but good enough for a casual evening. I’d forgotten that it was jazz night, however. The Kip Kennedy sextet was just setting up as the server brought our food - a roast beef and Swiss cheese sandwich for Quandra, a bowl of white chicken chili for me.

  “So, tell me about yourself, Jeff Cody,” Quandra said over the top of her drink.

  “I’d rather talk about murder and Peter Gerard.” That was why I was here and not with Lynda.

  “I asked first,” Quandra said. “There is a little bit of a southern twang in your voice that I find exciting.” That means I’m uncomfortable, according to Lynda, which is true enough the way this conversation was heading. “You didn’t grow up in Ohio did you?”

  “I was reared in Virginia. My folks still live there. They sent me to St. Benignus after their alma mater, the University of Virginia, didn’t work for me. They thought I needed a smaller school. It worked. I’ve been at the college ever since.”

  She arched a neatly plucked and penciled eyebrow. She had brown eyes, like Lynda, but without the gold flecks. The Kip Kennedy sextet swung into “Lover Man.” Thanks guys. Where are you when I need you?

  “You never wanted to go somewhere else, do something else?”

  “Oh, I intended to. I just never got around to it. I was editor of the student newspaper my senior year, then I landed a job as assistant to the public relations director. When he died, I took over without skipping a beat. And here I am. Too many New Years went by, I guess. Or maybe it was Mac and my sister that kept me here.”