Good Deed Bad Deed : A Novel Mystery

by Marcia Morgan

  “I don’t need to hear your family history. The reason for your request is less important than getting a few things straight about what your absence would mean. How long would you be gone?” Before she had a chance to answer he chimed in again. “I hope you know that I wouldn’t consider paying you for that time, if I even agree to let you go. You haven’t yet earned even a week’s paid vacation.”

  Olivia informed him that she hadn’t expected to receive paid vacation, and that she had worked out her finances in a way that would make the trip possible. He didn’t need to know that Valerie was treating her to most of it. She had only enough for some meals and maybe a few small gifts for her family—maybe Mr. Saunders as well. She sat down in the chair opposite his desk and waited while he tapped a pencil on the desk and pursed his lips in thought. Several minutes passed before he sat up straight, put down the pencil and leaned forward, his elbows on the desk.

  “Go. We’ll manage. Ten days is the longest I can let you be gone.” He wagged his finger at Olivia and spoke like a Dutch uncle. “Don’t call me then and try to weasel more time out of me.”

  Olivia thanked him profusely until he told her to please leave his office so he could get some work done. On her way out he added that if she didn’t get all the new fabrics catalogued by closing, she would have to stay. She hurried out of the office and into the back room, where she worked diligently until the last bolt was correctly placed in its cubby. She glanced at the clock on her desk and saw that it was after five-thirty. Her workday was at a close.

  On the way out she peeked into Cole Saunders’ office and waved goodbye, mouthing “thank you” to him before closing the door. He was tied to a call with a supplier in China, which was immediately obvious to her because he was speaking Mandarin, only one of the five languages in which he could converse. Once on the sidewalk, she realized that the usual three-block walk to the Tube seemed too far in the humidity that had risen during the afternoon, even if she cut through the little park. She decided to wait at the corner for the next bus that would take her close enough to her flat. The wait was short, and soon she climbed aboard, deciding to take the stairs up to the open-air level. The bus moved in stops and starts, block after block, while Olivia enjoyed the brief periods of cooling wind in her face. As the bus approached her destination she walked carefully down the stairs, ready to hop off quickly.

  Within another ten minutes Olivia was unlocking the door to her flat. She pulled open the drapes in the small sitting room and unlatched the window to let in some fresh air. She took in a deep breath and glanced at the blue-purple sky that signaled dusk was approaching. The sun was gone, and another long evening was ahead of her. She kicked off her shoes and threw her purse on the coffee table, the mobile phone slipping out onto the glass top. Deciding that a cool glass of wine might perk her up, she headed for the kitchen. While pouring the chilled Pinot Gris, her mobile began to ring. A flush of anticipation ran through her as she hurried to answer the call. She tripped over the shoes, barely righting herself, and dived for the phone just as it went to voicemail.

  * * *

  It was after five o’clock, and the pub was becoming more crowded by the minute. Gareth Logan took the last swig of his beer and blamed the din for his headache. The culprit was more likely the beer, his third. He dropped a few coins into the wooden tip box, slid off the stool and headed out the door. He had been avoiding the return to his dingy flat but knew that he had to be there to take a call at six. He crossed in the middle of the block, causing several drivers to honk, and then walked the mere hundred yards to his building entrance. Gareth entered his small flat and flopped down on the lumpy sofa. He blew out a long breath, a sure sign that all was not well in his world. His nerves wouldn’t allow him to sit still, so he got up and removed his jacket, throwing it onto the small table in the corner that served for meals and everything else. He grabbed at a magazine and sat down again, this time settling in the ratty lounge chair by the window, where he often used the sunlight for reading. There was only one old ceiling fixture to light the whole dismal room. He flipped through the pages, not really seeing what was there. He swiveled and twitched, rested his head on his hand, flung one leg over the chair arm, and finally got up again. He paced around the room, checking his phone at approximately two-minute intervals.

  Gareth was standing at the window when it rang. It was the same voice as last time—the same voice that threatened to have his brother killed if he didn’t help them—whoever them was. Days had passed since the first call, the one ordering him to meet at that pub in King’s Cross, and he had done as he was told—as well as he was able. His efforts to figure out how anyone had made the connection between his brother and himself had been unsuccessful. James had been in prison for over a year, but to Gareth it seemed longer. He still believed his brother wouldn’t be there if he’d had a decent solicitor, one who would have advised him to be tried separately from the other two men.

  There were two appeals still pending, but in the meantime his younger brother was trapped inside with hardened criminals. It was ruining their mother’s health, and he had made her an impulsive promise to see it through to the end, the end being either his release, or a transfer to a less hardcore facility. James had been guilty only by association. The wrong choice of friends, slightly older young men who had turned out to be hoodlums, had led him to be present at a robbery he knew nothing about. His so-called friends had told him to wait outside the local off-license, that he wasn’t old enough to buy anything anyway. No one had been armed, the manager nor the young men, but they had brandished all too real-looking toy guns that James had not noticed in their pockets. It was an old story, really… what had happened to him. Gareth might never know how the men with whom he was now forced to be involved had found his brother among all those real criminals, but they had. And now he had to sort it out by any means possible. He had promised his Mum.

  “Have you got a second date with her yet,” the voice said, its tone brusque, almost surly. “I told you—time is of the essence. We lost time trying to deal with the brother.”

  “I haven’t called yet—I’ll do it now—after this. I was waiting for her to get home from work.”

  “You’d better hope she doesn’t stop off somewhere. Make the invitation sound too good to pass up. You know what happens if you drop the ball.”

  “I know. You don’t have to keep threatening me. I get it. But if she didn’t like me, I can’t make her go out with me again.”

  “Then you’d better turn whatever charm you have up to high. And don’t forget to use the alias. You’re Clive Warren. By the end of the evening I expect you to have information on everything she’s doing and where she’ll be for all of this next week. Is that clear?”

  “It’s clear. But only so much is within my power. And you haven’t told me why I’m insinuating myself into her life. When are you going to tell me where this is going? You won’t expect me to hurt her, will you?”

  “Not at this time. I have others for that purpose, if it comes to that. Just do as you’re told and your brother will be fine. She may even be fine. Screw it up and they both pay the price. You will too.” The voice paused, obviously letting the threats sink in. Gareth said nothing, just waited to see if there was more. Then the words began again. “Just to confirm that I’m not bluffing, I think you should have your brother’s solicitor contact him—or if he’s allowed family calls, you might want to check in on him. Have them transfer you straight to the infirmary. That’s where he is.”

  The voice had become increasingly sullen, and the last sentence carried a downright sinister edge. His last statement hit Gareth hard. Fear crackled through his body as he heard the man’s words and immediately began to imagine what may have happened to his brother. He decided to put off his call to Olivia for a little while. First he would call James’ solicitor. As an officer of the court a solicitor would be able to get information more quickly. He fumbled through the top drawer of his dresser and found
the worn business card, and then dialed the number. The call went to voicemail, but he left the information and with all the control he could muster, calmly asked the solicitor to check in on James—that his mother had been more upset than usual and needed confirmation that her son was doing all right. He rung off and sat down, head in his hands, his mind racing with the demands being made on him, and his growing worries about the advisability of seeing Olivia again. He had to choose. It was either his brother’s safety or Olivia’s. The choice was impossible from a moral standpoint, but he knew without any doubt that family would have to come first.

  After drawing a few deep breaths he dialed Olivia’s number. Just as it started to click into voicemail she answered. “Hello, Olivia here.”

  “Umm, this is Clive Warren. I had said I’d call—remember—when I put you in the taxi?”

  He had identified himself and now waited to pick up on her attitude about hearing him on the other end of the line. Much to his surprise, she sounded delighted to hear his voice—or maybe he needed to think that. Yet he went blindly forward and proposed that they see each other again—the next evening. Olivia accepted, but told him she couldn’t make it a late night because she was planning a short trip, her boss having surprised her by agreeing to the short absence. Gareth heaved a sigh of relief when she accepted his invitation and asked if there was something special she might like to do. Olivia told him that she knew of a club not too far from her flat that was featuring a small jazz group from the U.S., and since her parents were always ‘talking it up,’ she thought it might be fun to see what all the fuss was about. He easily agreed and said they could eat first—maybe walk from her flat to a café close by, then go on to the club.

  “That sounds like a practical plan,” Olivia said. “I‘ll do my best to be home by five-thirty, but I’ll need to spruce up a bit, so why don’t you call for me at about seven o’clock. We can grab a bite and then catch the first set. I have to be home by eleven o’clock, latest.”

  “I’m anxious to see you again, Olivia. I stopped by your office just after noon today—I guess you were at lunch. Mr. Saunders was just on his way out. I told him that I’d be very satisfied to work with another associate. He asked why—had you been unsatisfactory in some way— and I told him the truth. I said that it was more important to me to see you socially than to have you decorate my office. He seemed to understand—gave me a sly smile, actually.”

  “You don’t let any grass grow under your feet, do you, Mr. Warren?”

  Her tone was light. She sounded as if what he had done pleased her, which pleased him as well. Yet part of what he felt was relief that she would see him again. He asked for the address of her flat, which in spite of her original hesitation, she now gave willingly. He told her that tomorrow seemed too far away, and she laughed it off, thinking he was now showing her his ‘line.’ What she didn’t realize was that as soon as the words left his mouth, he realized he meant them. He liked her, and that scared him.

  * * *

  After ending her call with the suitor she knew as Clive, Olivia placed her mobile back on the coffee table. She picked up her shoes from the floor and went into the bedroom to change. In a few minutes she came out wearing leggings and a sweatshirt. She walked into the kitchen and began to gather ingredients for a light meal. Her frig was devoid of choices other than three kinds of cheese, a few bottles of white wine, a bag of greens and a questionable looking yellow pepper. She curled up on the couch, a glass of wine to her left, the meager salad in her lap, and switched the television to the BBC evening news. Before she had eaten a second bite, her mobile rang. She put down the bowl and reached out for the phone in front of her. Valerie was on the line, calling to find out if Olivia had managed to get time off work.

  “So, what did he say?” she asked abruptly,

  “No one is more surprised than I am. He said yes—but for a maximum of ten days. He warned me not to call him and try begging for more.”

  “That’s wonderful news,” Valerie said, sounding relieved. “Tomorrow morning I’ll get something booked—the soonest possible flight. I’d go online, but it would take too much time to sift through all the travel websites. I know the airfare will cost more—booking at the last minute. I’ll go to that travel agent down the street from my shop and have him find the best fare. He can do the actual tickets and find us a hotel.”

  “You seem to have taken it all well in hand. I wouldn’t know where to start, planning at the last minute like this.”

  “The agent will actually do the hard part—but still not as hard as the paying part!”

  “I’ll stop at my bank tomorrow on the way to work and get my meager donation to the trip. Also, don’t forget to tell whoever books the hotel that we only want two or three stars—three being preferable—if it’s not too much. When you get right down to it, making travel arrangements is just another form of shopping.”

  “Leave it to you to bring shopping into it. Are you still queen of the vintage stores?”

  “Never mind that—but yes, and proud of it.” Olivia paused, then added, “Oh-oh, I remember what I wanted to tell you. I have a date tomorrow night, so be sure to call me between five and six. I’ll be leaving at seven. If I don’t answer, try again—I might be in the shower. Or if you get things settled before then, call me at work. The sooner the better.”

  “Well, I hope you can organize yourself in time—along with going out for the evening. What if I get us a flight for day after tomorrow?”

  “I’ll make it an early night—just tell him I have to be at work early. I’ll start sorting out some things tonight and if I need to, get up early tomorrow to start packing. It will be fine. Don’t worry.”

  “Don’t forget the hat and sunscreen. You reddish-haired types burn easily. I don’t want you putting a damper on things by getting a sunburn.”

  They both laughed and rang off. Olivia felt a surge of excitement, brought on by the fact that the trip was now a reality. She spent the remainder of the evening pulling out clothes and touring northern Spain courtesy of Google. When she discovered that within the week the Festival of San Fermin and the running of the bulls would begin, she became even more enthusiastic. It had been during the festival that her grandparents had met. She wondered if there could be a bit of romance waiting for her as well. That would add another element to the trip, and as she lay in bed, waiting for sleep, she hoped against hope that Valerie would manage to make reservations that would place them at the center of the festivities.

  * * *

  The next day Olivia felt at loose ends and found it hard to concentrate on the decorating assignment she had been given the week before. Mr. Saunders had made a point of needing to have it finished before she left on vacation. But the trip wasn’t her only distraction. She was contemplating her second evening with Clive Warren, and found herself becoming more nervous by the hour. Only a short time was needed to complete the project, so she decided to put it away and head home to prepare for her date. She treated herself to a taxi and was soon inside her flat trying to decide what to do first.

  Fresh from the shower she began to pull garments out of the closet, tossing them on the bed one at a time, until eventually something struck her fancy. She chose a very dark pair of jeans and a white rayon top, its wide neckline meant to drop off one shoulder. Her earrings were large oval hoops, silver, with several tiny moonstones hanging from each. She chose a velvet wrap in a silvery shade of dove gray and took one last look in the mirror. Something wasn’t right, and she paused. She reached for a silver filigree clip and swept up the mass of hair, twisting it casually and securing it high on her head. Several tendrils had escaped, but only served to bring attention to her green eyes and fair complexion.

  There were twenty minutes or so before her date would arrive. She set about tidying her small sitting room, fluffing pillows, folding the plush coverlet and placing it on the back of the sofa. Her phone rang as she picked it up to put it in her purse. She answered and heard a
very excited Valerie on the other end.

  “It’s done. We’re set! We leave day after tomorrow from Heathrow at ten—not too early for you, is it?” Valerie laughed and waited for Olivia’s response.

  “No, it’s fine—but what airline? And where are we landing? And how do we get to our hotel— are we renting a car?” the questions were flying out of her mouth faster than Valerie could answer them.

  “Slow down! Now just listen… Iberia airlines to Madrid; layover is less than an hour; next stop, San Sebastián. Total trip is less than five hours. We’ll find transportation at the airport to take us to our hotel in Pamplona. It’s about a half hour from the airport, so the agent said. Well, where we’re staying is actually a guesthouse—not sure I can remember the whole name, or pronounce it. Something-something-Alojamientos. The agent said it had good reviews and there may be a kitchenette. That will save some money. The room only has to be clean and have a private bathroom. We won’t be there much.”

  “True. It’s probably ‘guesthouse’ Alojamientos. Wow, you really did a good job. Now if the festival was happening, it would all be too perfect.”

  “Surprise! It starts the day after we arrive. That’s why the hotels were a little more than I expected. They bump up the price during the festival.”

  “Now I’m as excited as you are. Oh lord, what will I take—I have to think fast—no time for shopping.”

  “Pack for heat. Remember the hat and sunscreen. Now I have to run. Have fun tonight.”

  “Wait! How are we getting to the airport?”

  “I’m booking a taxi to pick us up—first me, then you—they have a rate to the airport.”

  “Valerie, I didn’t realize you could be so organized… just kidding. Bye.”

  Olivia set her phone on ‘silent’ and put it in her purse. The chimes from a nearby church began to strike seven. Clive, as Olivia knew him, was punctual, ringing the buzzer and knocking before the seventh strike. When Olivia answered the door he didn’t have to fake his admiring gaze. Once in the hallway she noticed that the elevator was in use, and she didn’t want to wait. Neither spoke while they took the two flights of stairs to the street, but as they began to walk in the direction of the jazz club, conversation became brisk and congenial. They stopped at a small café for a light meal, during which Gareth seemed more quiet than he had been on their first evening together. He seemed preoccupied, his expression anything but attentive.