Holmes Sweet Holmes
Page 23
Mac nodded. “In that you are correct. I have not forgotten that and I never will. My shameful folly will be with me the rest of my life. I am a chastened man and I have vowed to myself to be changed man.” We had talked about that and I knew that he meant it. I wasn’t sure that Peter Pan was going to suddenly grow up, but I expected to see a greater sense of responsibility in Sebastian McCabe.
“I am not, however, a double murderer,” Mac went on. He lit the cigar. “Hoffer’s actions surely reflect more poorly on this institution than anything I have done.”
“But you are alive and still working here - so far. Hoffer is dead. Case closed.”
“Not entirely.”
“Meaning what? What kind of shakedown is this supposed to be?”
Mac leaned back and puffed contentedly while Ralph steamed visibly. “I took the liberty of making a few enquiries with friends of mine in the psychology department; don’t bother to try to find out whom. They were able to confirm something I had suspected because of the timing of your arrival and Hoffer’s.” He smiled. “You hired him, Ralph. As part of your great effort to improve the academic integrity of St. Benignus, and over the objections of the psychology department head, you hired a man who was an academic fraud and later became a double murderer.”
Ralph squirmed in his chair. “I can’t be blamed for not knowing the man was going to go off the deep end when he got here. His credentials and background were impeccable.”
“He did not even earn his master’s degree. He was a cheat.” Mac leaned forward, talking into the intercom on his phone. “Am I going too fast for you, Heidi?”
The only response was a quick click.
“There was no way on earth I could know that a man had bought his master’s thesis fifteen years before,” Ralph protested.
“Surely, however, that fact indicates a flawed character that ought to have been detectable using proper hiring procedures. To my knowledge, the department head you superseded in imposing your will has never hired a murderer or a fraud.”
Ralph slumped. “I couldn’t know,” he mumbled. “I couldn’t know.”
“I suppose you could offer that defense to the board of trustees.”
The academic vice president and provost looked up. “What do you mean by that?”
Mac was the personification of good humor. “Naturally, I have no choice but to see that this matter is brought before the board at its regular meeting next week - perhaps right before the discussion of the popular culture program. I have at least one friend on the board who would be willing to do that.”
“And I have a number of strong allies on that board, McCabe.” The fight wasn’t out of him yet.
“I have no doubt that they will mount a spirited defense in your favor. They may even win. Or they may lose, putting you and me on the unemployment line together. Or perhaps, on more mature reflection, you do not want to ask the board to abolish the popular culture program after all.”
Ralph stood up, struggling to keep his voice from cracking and his body from trembling. “This is blackmail, McCabe!”
“I prefer to think of it as an aggressive negotiating posture.”
The broken man looked at Mac, then at me, then at Mac again. He opened his mouth, then closed it tight. Without another word, he rose and stalked toward the door. Mac called after him:
“Do not miss the next issue of The Write Stuff, Ralph. It will contain some of your most memorable work!”
The Future Is Not Enough
The double celebration of Lynda’s promotion and our engagement found us that Saturday night at Ricoletti’s Ristorante, Erin’s most elegant eatery. The maitre d’ showed us to an intimate dining room, one of a dozen or more in the old building. Perched on a hill overlooking the river, it had once been a captain’s house and - like Mac’s place - a stop on the Underground Railroad.
“I’ll have a Knob Creek Manhattan,” Lynda told the waiter taking our drink order. He looked Vietnamese. “Straight up, very cold, don’t overdue the bitters. Shaken, not stirred.” I wish I’d said that.
“A cherry, ma’am?”
“Why not two? We’re celebrating.”
“And you, sir?”
This was no time for caffeine-free Diet Coke or a light beer, so I ordered a glass of the house red. It’s Chianti. That’s Italian, right?
Tonight Lynda’s curly hair was hanging free around her oval face, making her look a little like Lucia Schiaparelli in that famous commercial where she stood in the almost-altogether on a sea shell in homage to Botticelli’s Birth of Venice. Was it just the long hair or Lynda’s northern Italian heritage that made me think of the stunning model?
La Schiaparelli is much older, probably around fifty, but that steamy thirty-second video - still wildly popular on YouTube - inspired millions of American males to buy bottles of the outrageously expensive Birth of Venus perfume for their beloveds without ever having smelled the stuff. I stood in line to get Lynda’s, and I still hadn’t smelled it. Apparently she preferred the scent of Cleopatra VII, her favorite fragrance and therefore mine.
Lynda was wearing Cleopatra VII now. The effect on me was intoxicating, something like listening to Boléro. I liked everything else she was wearing that Indian summer evening, too.
Her outfit was a smashing black number that was a dress the way Da Vinci was a painter, with a scoop neck and a slit down the side. Her dangling earrings and matching necklace were silver filigree, delicate like lace, which I suspected had some family history. Open-toed platform heels showed off her pretty feet and red-painted toenails.
And we were going to be married!
If there were a happier guy in the world at that moment . . . well, there wasn’t.
“So,” I said.
“So.”
We smiled at each other.
“So when’s our Big Day?” I asked. We hadn’t even had a chance to talk about a timetable.
“Soon after the wedding, I promise.”
“Cute.”
“I was thinking of spring nuptials, maybe May.”
“That works.” The second semester would be over, or close enough. “Where?”
“St. Edward the Confessor, of course.” Her parish church. “I suppose we have to invite the parents?”
“I suppose.” Finally, then, the mystery of Lynda’s seldom-discussed mother and father would be solved.
As I was musing on this, Lynda announced, “I’m going to ask Polly to be my maid of honor.”
“A nun?”
“Why not? She isn’t married.” Always a bridesmaid . . . “Besides, the Daughters of St. Augustine are not technically nuns. They are women religious.”
“Whatever.” I didn’t know the difference. Maybe nuns don’t do taekwondo. Anyway, Lynda’s choice of maid of honor was fine by me. I actually like Triple M. She’s one of the sweetest people on the planet. She’s also cute, but I try not to notice.
“Are we going on a honeymoon?” I hated to be nosy, but I was curious.
“You’re so adorable when you’re trying not to be domineering. I’m taking you to Italy.”
“Benissimo. Do I have to pass inspection with your relatives?”
“By that time it will be too late, tesoro mio. I’ll have you and I’ll never let you go again.”
The waiter brought our drinks and took our orders - pine nut crusted salmon over fettuccine for me, and veal scallopine in a lemon caper white wine sauce for Lynda. When he left, I raised my glass of wine in a toast.
“To your new position. You’ll do a spectacular job, my sweet.”
We clinked glasses and drank. I wanted to say something like “saucy, but not too impetuous” - meaning the wine, not Lynda - but I had another toast in mind. I raised my glass again.
“To us, and to the future.�
��
“The future is not enough, Jeff. I say, ‘Until death do us part. Cin-cin!’”
Feeling buoyant, I might have ordered a second glass of wine, but I never had the chance. Enzo Ricoletti himself came by, oozing European charm and looking more comfortable in a tuxedo than I felt in my khakis.
“Buona sera,” he said.
“Buona sera,” Lynda replied. “Come va la vita?” And so forth. They yakked in the lingo of Dante, grand opera, and Sophia Loren for a while until Enzo must have noticed my eyes glazing over.
“I understand you are celebrating a special occasion,” he said.
“Once in a lifetime, in fact,” Lynda said. She gave me a threatening look, as if daring me to contradict her.
“Congratulazioni. Please enjoy this, compliments of the house.”
He waved to a bottle of iced Asti Spumante, which a waiter had brought along with our food. Then he and the waiter discretely disappeared, followed by our effusive thanks.
So we drank sparkling wine and ate our fabulous dinners. Before I knew it I was feeling really good.
“You know I don’t normally drink this much,” I told my fiancée.
“I’ll walk you home. Then you’ll either fall asleep or try to get fresh. Being skilled in the martial arts, I can handle either.”
We’d see about that.
Lynda Teal’s Favorite Recipes
Knob Creek Manhattan
2 parts Knob Creek Straight Kentucky Bourbon
1 part Gallo Sweet Vermouth
A long dash of Angostino bitters
Cherry with stem
Pour bourbon and vermouth into shaker of ice
Add dash of bitters
Shake
Pour into chilled cocktail glass
Garnish with cherry - or even two!
Boulevardier
1½ parts Knob Creek Straight Kentucky Bourbon
1 part Gallo Sweet Vermouth
1 part Compari
Orange slice
Pour ingredients into shaker of ice.
Shake
Pour into chilled cocktail glass
Garnish with orange slice
A Few Words of Thanks
Once again my friend Thomas Jefferson Cody and I wish to express our debt and our gratitude to the following family members, friends, and experts whose contributions to the preparation of this manuscript for publication were invaluable:
Ann Brauer Andriacco
Michael J. Andriacco
Felicia Carparelli
Sr. Eileen Connelly, OSU
Tricia Hempel
Kieran McMullen
Jeff Suess
Whatever errors remain are solely the responsibility of the author and his literary agent.
Special thanks to Steve Emecz and Bob Gibson at Stauch Design, who are, respectively, the world’s greatest publisher and the world’s greatest book cover designer.
Dan Andriacco
February 2012
About the Author
Dan Andriacco is a former newspaper journalist and mystery book reviewer who has been a member of the Tankerville Club, a scion society of The Baker Street Irregulars, since 1981. He is also the author of Baker Street Beat: An Eclectic Collection of Sherlockian Scribblings and the first Sebastian McCabe - Jeff Cody mystery, No Police Like Holmes. Follow his popular blog at bakerstreetbeat.blogspot.com and his tweets @DanAndriacco.
Dr. Dan and his wife, Ann, have three grown children and four grandchildren. They live in Cincinnati, Ohio, USA.
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