Sand City Murders

by MK Alexander

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Suzy smiled again and touched my arm.

  I actually felt a tinge of jealousy.

  “And thanks for the tickets.”

  “Well?”

  “Oh, I came with Hector. I’m meeting him here. He’s probably inside already.”

  “Hector Diaz?”

  “I didn’t know who else to ask.”

  “Does he have a tux?”

  “Now he does.” She patted my face gently. “Also says he’s a great dancer… so we’ll see what happens. Maybe you can cut in and save me at some point?”

  “Absolutely, darling. Just give me a nod.”

  Arriving a bit late was Doctor Hackney, ever tall and elegant, escorting his niece Clara Hobbs. It was a little unsettling to see her alive and breathing, much older, and not from a crime scene photo. I greeted her as warmly as I could manage. Roxy jumped to mind though, and I thought it best not to say a word about the would-be missing canine.

  When I started to wonder where Melissa was, and I knew her to be quite punctual— she appeared on cue beside me with a polite kiss on the cheek. She looked a little more than perfect tonight. Dressed to the nines and in full battle makeup. “Who is Debra Helling and why was she invited?” Melissa asked sharply.

  “A friend of Inspector Fynn’s. He asked her to come.”

  “Well, she’d better show up. That’s a comp I could have used.”

  “Where’s hubby?”

  “Oh, he’s in there somewhere, mingling.” She glanced around a bit nervously. “Did you buy a raffle ticket yet?”

  “No… not yet… what’s the prize?”

  “A weekend stay at the Californian… the presidential suite, breakfast included.”

  “Well, that’s pretty cool,” I lied outright but I doubt she noticed.

  Melissa held out her palm and I put twenty dollars in it. She handed me a raffle ticket.

  “How many people tonight, Mel?”

  “Over a hundred, I think.”

  “Wow,” I said surprised, and pointed to the sign just on the far wall: Occupancy by more than 95 people is unlawful by order of the Sand City Fire Marshal. I put my finger to my lips.

  Melissa gave me a friendly shove. “You’re such an idiot, Patrick.”

  She was probably right. I suddenly remembered that I left my guitar in the trunk of the car and ran off to the valet booth. A college kid directed me to the correct space. The pockets of my tuxedo were empty except for a twenty dollar bill. Now I was officially broke. I grabbed my case and hurried back inside.

  “Hey, if it isn’t Gary Sevens,” Randy greeted me with a quick handshake. “You ready?”

  “I guess…” I looked at the stage and it was arrayed with a variety of instruments, guitars of course, odd pieces of percussion, a few horns, woodwinds, and even a dulcimer. I gave a nod to Terry behind the drums, Fat Jack and Eddie. “What are you guys playing tonight?”

  “We’re going eclectic, usual stuff…and we’re sampling some of the seminal albums of all time,” Randy said and smiled. “You still want to do that Talking Heads tune, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Psycho-killer… Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Randy sang a little.

  “No, the other one, the one we rehearsed.”

  “Just kidding,” Randy said and hit the side of my arm. “Call you up in about an hour, okay?”

  I nodded and then heard the forlorn riff of an electric guitar, just two notes crying out. Fat Jack was starting the set. Terry followed with a shimmering roll on the cymbals, all brush work. Jack repeated the two note riff and an electric piano joined in, then Eddie did a slide down on the bass: Jeff Beck, Blow by Blow, Because We Ended as Lovers. The Policeman’s Ball had officially begun.

  ***

  “You’re not drinking tonight, inspector?” I asked Fynn when I caught up to him at the bar.

  “Not tonight. I must have my wits about me.” He widened his dark eyes. “And you? What can I get you?”

  “Just a beer, I guess.” I motioned to the bartender. “So… congratulations is in order I’d say.”

  “Why is that?”

  I glanced around the big room. “Your Policeman’s Ball seems to be an unqualified success.”

  “Well thank you, Patrick… but surely the night is young, eh?”

  “And have you located him yet? Or is he conspicuous by his absence?”

  “Mortimer, you mean? Ah yes, I may have caught a glimpse.”

  “What?” I was shocked. “Where is he?”

  Fynn looked around as well and also checked the mirrored walls. “I don’t see him at present, but just before he was talking to your Melissa.”

  “Did you say anything to him?”

  “Not as of yet...”

  “And?”

  “And, for the moment, we wait.”

  The Rumblers had changed pace somewhat. I heard a Beatles tune: Being for the Benefit of Mr Kite. Somebody on stage, it could only be Randy, was playing a wild swirling solo on the synthesizer.

  “I saw the orange Pontiac in the parking lot tonight. Is Debra Helling here?”

  “I don’t believe so. The automobile belongs to your friend Eddie now.”

  “Oh. What else is different?”

  “I suppose you’ll have to discover that for yourself, eh?” Fynn smiled and excused himself. “I must do a bit of mingling now…”

  It was hard to say for sure, but it seemed that Fynn himself made a jingling noise when he stepped from the bar. Between the music and the general chattering all around, I thought it was my imagination playing tricks.

  ***

  I was chatting with Alyson, Emma and Anika when the inspector came up behind me with a nudge. “There he is, Mortimer, speaking to Chamblis and that other fellow.”

  I swiveled my head and craned my neck for a better view. I could easily spot Charles and Jack together, talking in low tones to Burton Dean. Fynn couldn’t mean him of course. He was certainly not six feet tall.

  “Where?” I turned to ask Fynn but he had already disappeared. I looked again and checked the mirrored wall, though could see no one else there standing by the column. Randy and the band started a new tune: Steely Dan, Royal Scam, Kid Charlemagne…

  Once the first set ended and the Rumblers put down their instruments, Donald Pagor took the stage. He hobbled there though, and if he was wearing Italian shoes, it was just the one. His other foot was in a cast and he was leaning heavily on his grandfather’s cane. I could only guess the jet ski accident had happened in this timeline too. As usual, for the Voice of Sand City, a microphone was completely unnecessary:

  “Good evening ladies and gentleman… and welcome to the first annual Policeman’s Ball— the first, I hope, of many,” Pagor, the Master of Ceremonies bellowed in his over annunciated style then paused for effect and a bit of scattered applause. “Before we get on with tonight’s proceedings, which includes an auction, an important announcement, and of course, the winner of the raffle, there are many people here who deserve our gratitude.” Pagor paused again perfectly. “First and foremost, let’s give a warm welcome to Detective Chief Inspector Tractus Fynn... Thank you, Inspector Fynn… Of course, tonight would not be possible without the help of Chief Leonardo Arantez and Captain Richard Durbin the Third, from our fine constabulary. Their cooperation and support goes to the heart of this memorable evening. And, finally, we cannot forget the tireless efforts of Ms Melissa Miller from the Sand City Chronicle, who organized this wonderful benefit which we are all enjoying so immensely.”

  ***

  The Rumblers started their next set with Hurdy Gurdy Man, moved through to an obscure Leon Russell tune called This Masquerade, and finished up with a couple of requisite Police numbers, and two by Elvis Costello. I got the opportunity to dance with Suzy and Anika, separately of course, though neither got my full attention. I was completely distracted, searching the room for suspects and in particular, Mortimer. I did see Molly Gossip sitting alone at t
he bar and slightly drunk. I wasn’t the only person trying their best to avoid her. I also saw Eleanor and Mrs Lovely dancing together, a likely couple, I guess, but the song that played was not: Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of… The Rumblers were covering that Rolling Stones tune. Miriam came up to my side and watched them too. “Cute, eh?” she commented.

  “Two peas in a pod…”

  “Well, they are sisters, after all.”

  “What?” I turned to face her, unable to mask my surprise.

  “You didn’t know Annabel and El are sisters?” Miriam laughed. “How long have you been working at the Chronicle?”

  “She never said anything to me.”

  “Hmm, I wonder what else you don’t know, Patrick?”

  ***

  Pagor took the stage again. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s now time for the featured event of the evening, our benefit auction. All proceeds will be donated to the SCPD benevolent league, so I urge you to please, bid often and bid generously. Tonight’s first item is this magnificent antique hardwood cane with a brass jackal-head handle. The bidding will start at five hundred dollars. I see six hundred... and seven, eight… Mr Leaning from the Times.”

  With a slight gesture, Fynn made it a thousand.

  “A thousand… fifteen hundred to Mr James…”

  Evan James is bidding on this? Where did he get that kind of money? I didn’t even see him come in.

  “I have twenty-five hundred, Mr Leaning again… and three thousand, madam…” Pagor continued, “Four... and five thousand… Doctor Hackney, thank you.” Fynn nodded again. “Ten thousand, thank you Inspector Fynn. More bids? Twelve thousand, thank you, Melissa…”

  Wait. Melissa? She was bidding too? I strained for a better view and saw her standing with her husband in the far corner of the room. He was whispering in her ear. “I see twenty thousand, Mr Chamblis.”

  It seemed to be down to three bidders now. Fynn nodded again. “Thirty thousand… that’s quite generous, thank you… And now, the gentleman at the back, forty thousand. I have forty… forty one… two… three, forty three thousand dollars to Mr Chamblis… Going once, twice… sold to Mr Charles Chamblis. Thank you sir, indeed, most generous. If you’ll just come up and claim your prize... Ladies and gentleman, a big round of applause for Mr Chamblis, please.”

  It was over in a flash; the dreaded cane, now in the hands of Chucky Chamblis.

  Pagor went on to the next item on the auction list, an oversized National Audubon Society cook book. “This delightful volume would make a fine addition to any kitchen and it’s filled with the most enticing recipes…” Despite his bellow, I was able to turn Pagor off in my mind... Wait. What are they trying to auction off now?

  ***

  Not long afterwards I heard my name called over the public address, well almost, “Ladies and gentlemen please welcome our special guest performer, Mr Gary Sevens...” I gulped. Anxiety rushed through me. I heard some applause as I drained my glass and walked up to the stage.

  “Thanks, everybody… hope you’re all having a great time. Let’s hear it for Randy and the Rumblers tonight. They’re doing a fantastic job, right?”

  A round of applause, and a few modest bows from the band. I strapped on my guitar and strummed nervously. The level was perfect and it was in tune. I noticed Fat Jack switching to his acoustic. “Like to start off with a Van Morrison tune… sorry though, it’s not Moon Dance.” I heard Randy laugh behind me. That probably would have been the perfect song for tonight. Instead, I began with Into the Mystic. I strummed the five beat intro and sang, “We were born before the wind...” To my complete surprise, a horn section came up behind me. It was Randy on his trumpet with some added effects. Very nice indeed.

  Next, I did a Who song, mainly to satisfy Eddie. My Generation had an awesome bass solo that he loved to play. I think Terry the drummer had some fun with it too. I shut my eyes tight and started to sing. Surprising or not, this tune did a good job of filling up the dance floor. I finished my set with a Talking Heads song: Once in a Lifetime, but I had put my guitar down. Fat Jack would be hitting the power chords when needed. And ironically, I realized that my tuxedo and bow tie were especially appropriate. It’s nearly impossible to describe this song with words. The band started up with a double-time beat, a skidding syncopation and a kind of repetitive bubbly sound from the synthesizer. It was all punctuated by a plucked bass in measure. Fat Jack hit the three major power chords, and let the fourth sustain… The bubbling background continued. I came up to the mic but I didn’t sing at first, I spoke:

  You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack… You may find yourself in another part of the world... And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?

  Randy and the Rumblers took it from there: Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down... Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground...

  Fat Jack hit the power chords again with Randy following on his keyboard. I continued, half speaking, half singing, repeating: Same as it ever was... same as it ever was...

  We nailed the song perfectly, as strange as it is, and it also filled the dance floor. I was happy enough to hear people clapping; someone also shouted out encore, but it was probably just Joey. I took a small bow and left the stage. The house lights were raised and the band took a break. I slipped back to the bar for another drink but soon remembered I had spent my last twenty dollars.

  Pagor hobbled to the stage for a final time, I hoped so at least. “Let’s have a big round of applause for Sand City’s own, Patrick Jardel. I’ve been working with Patrick at the Chronicle for the past eight years and had no idea he was so talented. Thank you, Patrick, or should I say, Mr Sevens…”

  It seemed like faint praise or a backhanded compliment. I wasn’t quite sure which.

  “And now ladies and gentlemen, on to the main event so to speak. I’d like to call up Chief Leonardo Arantez…” Pagor boomed. The chief took the stage awkwardly and with a certain resignation, I thought. He was certainly conspicuous, not in a tuxedo. He began a long rambling speech about his time in Sand City. He thanked a lot of people, not all of them present tonight, and finally called up his own replacement. Arantez was officially retiring and handing over the reigns of the SCPD to Captain Richard Durbin the Third. It was the changing of the guard. I wasn’t entirely sure about the legality of this but had no complaints; Durbin would make a fine chief. In turn, the detective also had a long list of thank you’s…

  Randy and the Rumblers took the stage again and I heard strains of Little Feat, probably Dixie Chicken… Up till now they had the fifties to the eighties well covered, but I sensed they were having a little trouble arriving to the present, musically at least. I started to doubt we would hear any song from this century.

  ***

  “That’s the man, that’s Mortimer. I’m sure,” Fynn came up behind me and whispered.

  I looked across the dance floor to see who he meant. “Who, who are you talking about?”

  “The man speaking to your Melissa.”

  “I think… I think I’ve seen him before… wait, that’s her husband... That’s Mortimer?”

  “Without a doubt. He appears almost exactly as I remember him from nineteen sixty-four, a bit older perhaps.”

  This was Mortimer? I’ll admit to being shocked. I looked at his face. It was angular and sharp. He had long stringy black hair and a thin mustache that drooped on either side of his mouth, and an equally thin goatee. He could have just stepped out of a Civil War documentary. This was Mel’s hubby, father to cute little Madison? Mortimer was not quite as impressive as I had expected. He did stand over six feet tall, but not the great hulking man that Annabel Lovely had described. Rather more, he seemed sort of gangly, wearing a dinner jacket that was one size too large around the shoulders. Nor was it at all apparent that he only had one eye. I looked down at his shoes. All doubts to his identity were erased: Italian, size eleven.

  It seemed impossible to me though. I reach
ed back to my memory, searching for clues and remembered what little Madison had said. First on the bike path: they were looking for her father’s hat… and in the office, the drawing of him with an eyepatch, and the dog on a stick. It started to make sense now…

  “And Melissa was his accomplice all this time,” I said almost to myself.

  “No, I don’t believe so. Melissa is not the willing accomplice, though an unwitting one, I would guess,” Fynn whispered behind me.

  “Who then?”

  “Go on and introduce yourself, if you’d like. See what you make of the man. I must however keep close tabs on our Mr Chamblis, or more specifically his new cane.”

  “Yeah, why did you let him win, the auction, I mean?”

  “I thought it pointless to continue the bidding, he seemed hell bent on acquiring it.”

  I waited till Melissa walked away from her husband to talk to Molly Gossip. I strode over quickly and stood in front of him, but said nothing.

  “Mortimer Javelin at your service, Mr Jardel.” He took my hand and shook it. “It’s an honor and a privilege.”

  “You’re Melissa’s husband?”

  “Indeed I am, though she knows me better as Jerry... Or is it Julian? I’m rather forgetful about such details.” He smiled graciously enough, though I saw nothing genuine in it. “She has told me everything about you. I feel as if I know you quite well already.”

  “The feeling is mutual.”

  “Eh? Well, I’m rather enjoying this little soiree. Here we are surrounded by policemen, yet no one seems the slightest bit interested in me.”

  “Fynn is.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re correct about that.”

  “You’ve killed eight people and you’ll pay for your crimes.”

  “Tell me then, whom have I killed, Mr Jardel? And especially in the eyes of the law...”

  I had no answer to that.

  “Now if you will excuse me, I must speak with your editor…” Mortimer walked across the dance floor to the seating level, and right up to Eleanor, who was at a table chatting with Annabel. I watched as he whispered something in her ear and a smile spread across her face. She glanced up at him almost adoringly and I heard her raspy laugh. Mortimer led her to the dance floor. Incongruously, the band started playing Jobim’s Girl From Ipanema.