Holmes Sweet Holmes

by Dan Andriacco

  “McCabe - what it is with that guy? I’ve never met anybody quite like him.”

  “Nobody has. He’s a genius, of course. If you don’t believe me, just ask him.” If I had him here, I’d hit him in the head with Kip’s saxophone. “We met here as students. We were in the same class, but he was three years older and already a world traveler. He’d worked all over Europe as a street magician, and then got a job doing table magic on a cruise ship to get him home.”

  “So that’s where he learned all those languages,” Quandra said. “Peter told me that he’s multi-lingual along with his other talents. Peter really admires that.”

  “Actually, Mac grew up in Europe. His father was in marketing with Procter & Gamble and his mother was once a minor actress in a P&G soap opera. She gave that up for a career of dragging six children all over the continent for about twenty years until her husband got assigned back at corporate headquarters in Cincinnati.”

  “How did he meet your sister?”

  “It was my fault. I took him home with me one year at spring break and Kate suddenly decided she wanted to enroll at St. Benignus. Our parents had no objections. She and Mac lived in different cities while they were both in graduate school, but I don’t think they were ever really apart. He eventually proposed with an ad on the radio. And when they’d been married ten years he passed out their phone number all over town and asked people to call his wife and wish her a happy anniversary.”

  “How romantic!”

  “Yeah.” He’s such a show-off.

  “I bet you’re just as romantic.” My, what big eyes you have, Quandra!

  “Sorry, you just lost a bet.” I took a sip of my decaf. “Now, tell me about you and Peter Gerard.”

  The question wasn’t exactly on-point, but it seemed natural given the kind of vibes she was sending in my direction.

  Quandra sighed. “Unfortunately, there is no me and Peter Gerard. There is a me and there is a Peter but there is no me and Peter.”

  “Of course there is. You’re his executive assistant, which means he probably can’t find his calendar without you.”

  She chuckled. “I think he can. It’s on his smart phone. What I mean is, a lot of people might assume there’s some romantic relationship between us, being two reasonably attractive people who work closely together, but it’s not like that at all. The fact is, Peter and Alice are so close there isn’t room for anybody to come between them.” She didn’t actually add “dammit” at the end of the sentence, but it wasn’t hard to imagine it there.

  I knew Alice was Peter’s wife from all of those magazine, TV, and website stories. And it sounded like Peter’s swift dismissal of her as a likely murder suspect was getting strong support from Quandra.

  “Then that stuff I keep reading about his idyllic home life with the non-actress wife and their children in the modest home in Bloomington and how they don’t want to go to Hollywood is all true?” I said.

  She nodded. “Peter likes to play the anti-Hollywood tune in the media because he knows it’s good copy and publicity sells tickets, but he also believes it. He really thinks the Hollywood system turns out a lot of imitative junk because it discourages innovation and risk-taking. He hardly ever watches new movies himself.” I bet Quandra saw them all. “I don’t think he’ll ever go in with one of the major studios, even though he’s been asked repeatedly.”

  “You sound - what? Wistful?”

  She looked into her empty glass for a moment for the answer. “I’m only twenty-four, Jeff. I was born in Bloomington. I grew up in Bloomington. I still live in Bloomington most of the time. Making movies with Peter in towns a lot like Bloomington is hard work and fun and satisfying. I’ve learned a lot. But the opportunities are much greater at Warner Bros., Paramount, and Twentieth Century Fox. I want to make it big someday, really big. If I can’t make it with Peter, I’ll do it on my own.”

  That I could believe. Quandra Hall was so young and in such a hurry. I’d never been in a hurry. Maybe that’s why my plans and hopes turned into half-remembered dreams and vague regrets. Please take me up on that rain check, Lynda.

  Our server, a skinny young man with an earring and a hair job like Woodstock in the old “Peanuts” comic strip, set down our meals. Quandra’s eyes widened at the generous size of her sandwich.

  “Tell me about Peter’s business partner,” I said, stirring my spoon in the white chicken chili. “Peter said the guy doesn’t love him, but needs him.”

  “They need each other, I think, but that may not stop them from splitting up. Peter is the creative genius of the duo. He’s been acting since college days but he’s really a writer. That’s how he got started in pictures - with the script for The Last Man Club. It was an indie film and only a modest moneymaker, but it made him a big man in Bloomington.”

  “And that’s where Howard Fitzwater came in,” I said. I was remembering the story now.

  “Right. He’s one of the biggest theater owners in the Midwest and he lives in Bloomington. He came to Peter with an offer Peter couldn’t refuse: He’d put up the money for Peter to direct his own film. That would give Peter complete artistic control so his script wouldn’t get diddled with like The Last Man Club was. Fitz would be the executive producer, but all he had to do was raise the money and let Peter handle the moviemaking.”

  “That sounds risky for the money man.”

  “Fitz didn’t get where he is by avoiding risk. He worked himself up from Saturday ticket-taker to manager of all the theaters in Bloomington, barely squeaking through high school along the way. Then he mortgaged everything he had, including an inheritance from his parents, to buy the theaters from the chain that owned them. Within three years he had a lot of the debt paid down and was expanding. In another three years he owned theaters in seven states. He saw right away that if he teamed up with Peter he could make money just by booking his own movies into his own houses. And besides, he trusted a Midwesterner like Peter to keep the costs down, not go millions over budget the way they do in Hollywood.”

  “Obviously the partnership has worked well,” I said during a pause from shoveling in the chili. “What’s this business about splitting up?”

  “You could call it artistic differences, I guess. Even though 221B Bourbon Street just cries for a sequel because it leaves off with Holmes apparently dead at Niagara Falls, Peter has decided he doesn’t want to do one. He’d rather go in a new direction with an idea he has that’s part mystery and part steampunk - whatever that is. Fitz wants to do Return to Bourbon Street because it’s a sure-fire moneymaker. He and Peter have had some pretty serious quarrels about it. I wouldn’t bet on either of them to give up. A business divorce may be the only answer.”

  “But Fitzwater needs Peter. At least, that’s what Peter said.”

  “And it’s true. But whether Fitz still realizes that is another question. I think maybe he’s got stars in his eyes to match the one in his bed.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “The second Mrs. Fitzwater is Monica LaRue. She’s an old friend of Peter’s from that theatrical group he was in back in college. And she’s starred in all of their pictures, including 221B - the only big Hollywood name in them. Fitz may live in Bloomington, but Monica has a mansion in Bel Air. It seems to work for them, more or less.”

  She was trying to tell me something with the “more or less,” but the Fitzwater-LaRue marriage was not on my radar screen. I pulled her back to the subject at hand.

  “So what we have here,” I said, “are two partners who aren’t getting along right now. One of them may be a murder target, and the other one is starting to get ideas he can fly solo - or duo, with his wife. Does Fitzwater have Peter’s life insured?” I assumed that as Peter’s executive assistant she would know a thing like that.

  “Of course. It’s a standard business practice. But you don’t thi
nk -”

  “For how much?”

  “Ten million dollars.”

  Ironically, the sextet just then swung into “So What.” I looked their way - and was immediately distracted by the couple sitting just to the right of the drums, bass, piano, trumpet and two saxophones.

  Quandra, following my eyes, turned around. “Where’s the show?”

  I lowered my voice. “See the middle-aged guy with the slicked-back hair? His name is Ralph Pendergast and he’s one of my bosses.”

  “You seem surprised to see him here.”

  “I am.” But maybe I shouldn’t have been. One night when I’d called him at home I could have sworn I’d heard the music of Dave Brubeck playing the background.

  Rigid Ralph seemed a different person here, laughing and bending over every now and then to whisper sweet nothings at the woman he was with. The angle wasn’t right for me to get a good look at her face. She seemed too short, maybe five-five, and too nicely filled out to be Heidi Guildenstern.

  “Jeff, I’m afraid,” Quandra said, pushing her half-eaten sandwich away from her. “For Peter, I mean. I didn’t want him to go through with this lecture tonight. Like Mac said, he could be a sitting duck up there.”

  “I’ve talked to police and to Campus Security. I think you can quit worrying.”

  “But I won’t, even if everything turns out okay tonight. What if Peter goes ahead with this idea of trying to find the murderer himself? Do you realize how dangerous that could be?”

  Plenty - for Mac and me, that is. What if Gerard somehow found out who’d hired Stonecipher to impersonate him? That might be unlikely, but it could happen. And if it did, he would surely jump to the wrong conclusion.

  “Maybe he’s just going to go through the motions for the publicity,” I suggested.

  “Even so, the murderer wouldn’t know that. But I think he’s serious about this.”

  It was comfortably warm in the club, but Quandra shivered. “I’m scared, Jeff. And I’m lonely. I get so lonely on the road.” She moved a foot up my right leg. “Do you ever get lonely?”

  “Not much.” Right now, for example, I have my guilt and my regret to keep me company, thank you very much. Feeling myself start to sweat, I moved my leg out of reach.

  Quandra sat back a bit. “What’s she like?”

  “Who?” Now I was really confused.

  “The woman you’ve been thinking about the whole time you’ve been talking to me. It was so obvious. I can practically see the ‘Sold’ sign on your head. But you’re kind of cute in a redheaded sort of way, so I thought you were worth a try. So tell me about her.”

  This was a subject upon which I was prepared and happy to discourse.

  “Well, Lynda is smart and strong and really sweet.” And those are just her virtues starting with the letter S. “What I mean is, she’s tough with a soft core. She’s independent, determined, driving, and very invested in her career. But she’s also kind and compassionate and occasionally funny.” I hadn’t seen funny much lately. This ambiguous relationship of ours was taking its toll on that.

  “She sounds like a combination of Mother Teresa and Joan of Arc,” Quandra said wryly. “I suppose she’s gorgeous, too.”

  “To me she is.” And why do women keep asking me lately about the physical appearance of other women? “But I guess I’m biased. I even think her slightly crooked nose is cute. Objectively speaking, if I could be objective, I’d say she’s pretty and then some.” Even I could hear the Virginia in my voice. Desperately seeking to get out of this conversation - and out of this place - I looked at my watch. “Well, we’d better run. It wouldn’t do to miss your boss’s lecture.”

  Cutting her losses, she stood up. On the way out, though, I insisted we swing by the couple next to the sextet.

  “Ralph!” I said, just loud enough that he couldn’t ignore me. “What a pleasant surprise! I’ve never seen you here before.”

  “Good evening, Cody.” More than civil, he was almost warm. He nodded at Quandra. “I’ve just discovered this place and it’s wonderful.” Sometimes it was hard for me to remember that this was only Ralph’s second academic year on campus. The combo was into Brubeck’s “Take Five,” charming but predictable. Ralph was also charming, which wasn’t predictable. Was this perhaps the demeanor of a man with a guilty conscience, overcompensating with friendliness? I looked at his companion. She was an attractive woman in her mid-fifties, neatly arrayed in a no-nonsense blue dress.

  “This is Quandra Hall, Mr. Gerard’s executive assistant,” I said to Ralph.

  “How nice to meet you.” In his never-before-seen-by-me mellow mood he sounded like he meant it. “And this is Grace - my wife.”

  My deepest sympathy, Mrs. Pendergast.

  Partners

  Bauer Auditorium, where Peter Gerard was to talk on “Mystery and Mayhem in the Movies,” still serves the purpose for which it had been built in 1927 - the staging of plays.

  It also has hosted speeches by everybody from Bozo the Clown to a presidential candidate, and I’ll leave you to guess which made more sense.

  The hall seats six hundred and stands another two hundred. And tonight they were standing. You could barely see the carpet beneath the feet crowded together in the giant lobby a half-hour before the lecture was to begin.

  Walking in with Quandra Hall, I felt like a late arrival at the Academy Awards. The only things missing were the limousine, the searchlights, and the awards. On the other hand, we did have lots of cops, some in uniform, some identifiable because they looked the part.

  I spotted Oscar Hummel with the first sweep of my eyes around the lobby. He was over by a water fountain, muttering out of the side of his mouth to Officer Gibbons and trying to look inconspicuous while wearing a beret.

  I elbowed my way over to him, pulling Quandra along despite her half-hearted protestations.

  “Is anything happening?” I asked, a bit breathlessly.

  “Like what?” Oscar growled. “You mean has Peter Gerard been stabbed, bashed, shot, or strangled in front of my men? Not yet. Disappointed?”

  “I just hope we can say that at the end of the evening.” Sarcasm always riles me, unless I’m the one doing it. “Oscar, meet Quandra Hall, Gerard’s executive assistant. Oscar’s our police chief, Quandra, and a good friend of mine.” Never mind that he had once essentially accused me of murder; that’s water over the dam and under the bridge and all that.

  Oscar stuck out his beefy hand. “It’s a pleasure. Don’t leave town without checking in with me first. Could I borrow a cigarette?” What a charmer.

  Quandra shook Oscar’s hand. “Sorry, Chief, I don’t smoke.”

  The small talk was getting on my nerves. “I don’t suppose, Oscar, that you’ve taken your mind off of your tobacco cravings long enough to notice Mac around here somewhere?”

  Oscar shook his head, but behind me I heard, “I saw him.”

  It was the voice that makes me glad I have ears.

  I turned, grabbed Lynda, and kissed her on the mouth. If I’d thought about it, I never would have had the nerve, not knowing how she was going to take my frontal assault. It was good thing I didn’t think about it, because she responded with encouraging enthusiasm. She kissed back hard, wrapping me in her arms.

  “Hell’s bells!” Oscar muttered, with his usual delicacy of phrasing. “Do you have to do that here? Don’t you two get enough someplace else?”

  The truthful answer was “not for some time now,” but I wouldn’t have told Oscar that even if my mouth hadn’t been otherwise occupied.

  “Quite pleasant,” Lynda pronounced when she came up for air. “Have you been practicing?”

  Incoming! Incoming! How was I going to answer that without sounding defensive and therefore guilty? Solomon never had a problem like that. I finally came up
with, “No, I’m just getting better with age.” Good one, Jeff!

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your date?” She sounded bemused.

  “You know she’s not - oh, never mind. This is Quandra Hall. Quandra, Lynda Teal.”

  Quandra looked at my beloved appraisingly. Lynda wore a coffee-colored dress with a leaf design. It looked a lot better than it sounds, formfitting and chic.

  “So you’re the one he had his mind on all during dinner,” Quandra said. “You’re right, Jeff, she’s more than pretty.” I could kiss you for that, Quandra! No, wait, that wouldn’t be good. “Thank you for lending me Jeff for the evening, Lynda. He was kind enough to show me some of the more picturesque attractions of Erin.”

  “He’s not exactly mine to lend,” Lynda said, instantly producing a puzzled look on Quandra’s face.

  This was not a subject I wanted to explore with other ears listening. “Didn’t you say you saw Mac?” I asked Lynda.

  “Come on.” She took me by the hand and forged into the crowd. I managed a sort of helpless wave back at Quandra and Oscar, an odd couple if there ever were one. “He was near one of these pillars when I saw him.”

  “Between Mac and a pillar, how could you tell which was which?”

  Lynda squeezed my hand and kept moving. I kept talking. “You don’t know how sorry I am that I wasn’t with you tonight.” That wasn’t easy for me to say, but the kiss had paved the way nicely.

  “I was disappointed,” she said, “but after I quit sulking I realized that I have no right to expectations with the way things are between us - and I’m the one who made them that way. I have my reasons, but that’s beside the point. I’m not entitled to have it both ways. Anyway, I’d be happy to give you that rain check on dinner, if you still want it.”

  “I do.” Hey, I kind of like the sound of “I do.” Wouldn’t it be fun to get married?

  “Good. Maybe it’s time for us to talk some things through.”