Not QUITE the Classics (17 page)

Farnsworth, of course, didn't remove his sunglasses. He spun on his heels and took off. Actually “took off” is a very generous term. At twenty-five stone, he gently lumbered. I gave chase, but I could have kept pace with him just by walking briskly. He was no match for me, but as it turned out, I needn't have worried anyway. Farnsworth glanced back to see if I was gaining, and ran into a sturdy lamppost. He fell in a heap on his back and his Ray-Bans flew off his face. He lay still for a moment. I thought he might be dead, but after a few seconds, his eyes fluttered open. I released a handful of ash and watched it drift into his eyelashes. Immediately, I felt remorse at fulfilling my friend's wishes. Not because Farnsworth didn't deserve it (he did), but because it didn't seem sporting. It was like stapling a fish to the floor and then placing the fish hook in its mouth. As it turned out, I hadn't time to wallow in my remorse: a number of concerned citizens began to gather and shout angrily at me. I ran.

One to go.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 14

Still shaken from yesterday's adventure, I traveled to Ian's home in Warwickshire to organize his personal effects. I was still trying to track down the last name on Ian's list. Until I did, I could not fulfill Ian's last request.

Connor O'Toole was Ian's most bitter rival. He had actually stolen a few of Ian's ideas and had plagiarized his way to more than a few bestsellers. The courts ruled against Ian in the various lawsuits he had brought against O'Toole, which infuriated him. Ian despised injustice, absolutely abhorred it.

Anyway, as I worked away in Ian's library, I heard a ping come from the computer announcing an incoming email. It was a message from Connor O'Toole!

Dear Ian,

I must meet with you face to face. I wish to make amends for our past unpleasantness. We can get together either in London or, if you wish, you may come to Kilkenny as my guest. Please consider my request. I will explain all. I await your reply.

Yours,

Connor

I replied immediately.

Dear Connor,

I'll meet you in Kilkenny. Arriving on Sunday, September 16.

Yours,

Ian

I thought it odd that Connor hadn't heard about Ian's passing, but I knew that Connor had become a bit of a recluse since the plagiarism brouhaha. I made the necessary arrangements and packed a bag.

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 16

Well, what a day of firsts and lasts! My first trip out of the country, my first time on a plane, and the last name on the list.

The travel part was quite interesting. Going through the security area at the airport, I felt like a sheep shadowed by a particularly grumpy sheepdog. I was flummoxed by having to take my shoes off and completely baffled as to why I was forced to jettison all of the liquid in my carry-on. My imagination is not robust, but could anyone devise a plan that would get them in control of an airplane using their shoes, a Coke, and a can of Barbasol?

As I was led to my first-class seat, I grew excited. I was going to fly! The takeoff was loud and jolting, but I wasn't frightened. The flight itself was delightful. The flight attendants seemed to be disappointed if I refused anything they offered, so I accepted everything. Including a selection of premium beverages. At thirty thousand feet I discovered it was a relief to swallow loudly.

When we landed, the car I had ordered was waiting for me on the tarmac. The driver held aloft a sign with my name on it. The drive to Kilkenny was about an hour and a half, but it went by quickly. The scenery out the window was a picture postcard come to life. I made the driver stop at a pub in one of the small villages on the way and we had a ploughman's lunch, sitting on the benches outside. The patrons, in their lovely accent, regaled each other with tall tales, and there was much laughter. It made me miss Ian even more.

The car dropped me off at the quaint cottage where Connor O'Toole lived. I sent the driver on his way. I did not want him to witness my preparations for the ash toss. I had booked a hotel in town, having decided to take a mini-vacation, and had satisfied myself that it was within walking distance.

I slipped on my glove and rubbed a generous pinch of Ian between my fingers. I knocked twice and waited, hand poised. The door opened, and just as I was about to make my special delivery, the sight before me stopped me in my tracks.

A young man stood in the doorway with his left hand held aloft. He wore latex gloves and he held something grey and powdery.

“You're not Connor O'Toole!” I cried. “You're not Ian Becker!” he shouted.

In a panic I threw the ashes just he did. Our respective cinders mingled in a cloud of dust and hit us both squarely in the eyes. We reacted as anyone would.

We screamed.

I staggered blindly into the house, knocking the young man off balance. I managed to stop myself from falling by sticking my foot into what I later learned was a nineteenth-century Portuguese cuspidor. I groped about in circles with the thunk-clunk of my steps ringing in my ears.

“Why did you do that?” the young man cried.

My eyes were on fire and my lips were dusted with ash. For a moment, I was reminded of one of my unsuccessful formulas for cats. A high-ash, low-sodium kibble that tasted of crisp bacon. I threw up a little in my mouth. “You did it first!” I hollered.

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

Clearly, this was getting us nowhere fast.

“Enough bickering,” I sputtered. “Is there a sink nearby?”

“Yes,” said the man. “Follow me.”

“That will be difficult. Since I can't see where you are to follow,” I said with more than a little sarcasm.

“Don't take that tone of voice with me!”

“I apologize. Can you take me by the hand and lead me?”

“Certainly.” He groped for my hand and pulled me to the sink, where we took turns bathing our eyes till we could open them.

Later, over a cup of Irish Breakfast, we compared stories. It turned out Tristram, for that was the young man's name, was a favored writing pupil of Connor's. When Connor passed recently, in circumstances remarkably similar to Ian's, Tristram was entrusted with the same final request that I had undertaken with such glee.

“My list was quite a bit longer than yours,” Tristram said, shaking his head. “Connor had gotten quite bitter in later years. Too bad, really. He was a remarkable man in many ways. Did you know that Ian and Connor were once very close?”

I told him that I was quite surprised to hear it. “That must have been during the time that Ian and I had drifted apart, during his marriage. I never heard Ian speak fondly of Connor.”

“Yes, they were very close, almost like brothers. Then they had a falling-out. Connor never said why, but I guessed it was over a woman. Few things tend to end a friendship with such rancor.”

“I certainly hope it wasn't over Jeanine Carson. That would have been the ultimate tragedy. A friendship broken by that harpy. Did Connor ever mention her?”

“As I said, he never went into it. It's too bad, really. They were so alike in many ways.”

“Well, if their choice of revenge is any indication, I would say they were remarkably alike. But given Connor's history, I suspect he plagiarized that idea from Ian too.”

“You're lucky Connor's dead. He'd kill you if he heard you say that.”

“Tasting his earthly remains is punishment enough, believe me.”

Tristram grew thoughtful. “You're right. I've had enough of this revenge business, and if I'm honest, I do understand why Ian would hold a grudge against Connor. There were some marked similarities between Ian's Literal Larry character and Connor's Methodical Man. But the tone of
Literal Larry
was completely different from Connor's story. There was a sweetness to
Literal Larry
.
Methodical Man
was full-blown satire: harsh but very, very funny. Have you read it? It's about a sad chap with no imagination whatsoever.”

Realization dawned.

“I think I know why Ian hated Connor,” I said slowly. “He was defending
me
. I'm the basis for Literal Larry. When Connor stole Ian's idea, he was making fun of me, and Ian wouldn't have stood for that…” And then I thought of Ian's list. Every person on it had hurt or cheated me in some way too.

Tristram looked puzzled. “
You're
Literal Larry?”

“Yes, but it doesn't matter anymore.” I smiled. I took a last sip of tea. “Well, I suppose that's it, then. It's done. I have to admit I'm glad it has come to an end.”

“As am I,” said Tristram. “I found the whole thing rather distasteful.”

“Ah,” I said. “I'm glad for the opposite reason. I was quite enjoying it. Not really something that someone should derive pleasure from, though. So I'm a bit ashamed of myself.”

“I wish they could have found peace at the end. Terrible to think that your legacy is so easily undone with an eyecup and a few drops of Visine. It doesn't really change anything.”

“I hadn't thought of that, but of course you're right. It doesn't change anything for the dead. But for the living—it might change quite a bit. What are you going to do with the rest of Connor's ashes?”

“There's a bluff near here where Connor and Ian used to discuss story ideas. It overlooks the sea. Connor wanted what was left of him to be scattered to the winds there.”

“Hmm. Would you mind if I disposed of the rest of Ian's ashes there too?”

“It has a literary, poetic feeling to it, doesn't it?”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, it does.”

Tristram drove us to a spot well off the beaten track. We parked the car and wended our way to the bottom of a wooded valley that opened out onto a crescent moon of sand. The whole beach was banked by majestic rocky cliffs that beautifully accentuated the emerald-green water; it made me feel as if I had walked into a photograph. We went to the edge of the shore and gazed at the blue-green waves that lapped at the sand.

Finally, I spoke: “I'd like to think that, perhaps in death, Ian and Connor can finally reconcile. Find some peace.”

“Quite the imagination you have.”

I smiled, and on the count of three, we threw the earthly remains of our two friends to the waves. Then we did what sensible people do.

We ducked.

And the ashes blew towards us with the salt wind from the sea.

INSPIRED BY RAY BRADBURY'S

FARENHEIT 451

It was a pleasure to Burn.
The whole business of it. From the very beginning of a case when you have nothing but conflicting stories, clues that don't add up, and a cast of characters that wouldn't be out of place in a Hammett novel to the hopefully satisfying conclusion where the story comes together and the bad guys get what bad guys deserve. To Burn McDeere, star employee of the Malloy Detective Agency, solving crime was better than sex. You didn't get as sweaty, and someone else always paid the taxi fare. When the O'Hara case came up, McDeere felt that familiar simmering excitement in the pit of his belly.

Allyson O'Hara had somehow met the impossible challenge of charming his bosses, the Malloy twins. And the founders of the Malloy Detective Agency were harder to charm than an auditor with a migraine. Larry Malloy, the eldest by fifteen seconds, once made a suspect re-enact his own birth by pulling him through the half-open back window of a Nash eight-cylinder coupe. His younger brother, Harry, once went to a doctor complaining of back pain, not realizing he had been shot three times. So when they met with their ace operative, Burn McDeere, and took turns gushing about the aforementioned Mrs. O'Hara, Burn could only surmise that this Allyson woman was one special dame.

“Burn, ya gotta take this case,” said Larry. “There's just something about this girl. She's in trouble.” He was trying to keep things businesslike, but there was a hint of concern in his bright blue eyes that McDeere almost found touching.

“Yeah, trouble,” echoed Harry, running a hand through his sandy hair.

“Boss”—Burn held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness—“I'm kinda swamped right now…”

“We'll pick up the slack,” Larry said, brushing aside Burn's concern. “We've been looking to get more involved than we have been lately. Running a business ain't nearly as much fun as
doing
the business, eh Harry?” Larry winked.

“Yeah,
doing
the business,” repeated Harry. Larry was the brains of the operation and was top-notch. Harry was a right guy, but about as sharp as an avocado.

“Okay,” Burn said with an exasperated sigh that was more for effect than anything else. “What's the scoop?”

“No idea,” Larry said. “She'll only tell
you
. Saw your mug in the paper. A write-up about the San Fran Strangler case. Felt you were the man for the case.”

Burn had singlehandedly caught the serial killer who had squeezed the life out of fifteen women, and the arrest had made the front page. The killer was a madman who believed that his victims were alien oranges sent to Earth to take over the citrus drink market. At every crime scene he had left a Valencia with the words “Real Orange” written on the side. Turned out he was the proprietor of an independent juice stand called Real Orange Juice Bar over on Portola. As criminal masterminds go, he had been fairly easy to catch.

“Yeah?” said Burn. “That
was
a good picture of me. Shutterbug got my good side.” He offered up his profile: a dark, jutting brow, a flattened nose, and a square jaw. “Maybe she fell in love with my brutish good looks.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “and maybe I'm a shoehorn.”

Burn and Larry looked at Harry with surprise. This was the first joke Harry had cracked since the stock market crash.

Larry broke the silence. “Listen, she's out there in reception. Talk to her, find out what she needs, and give it to her. Anything you need on this case, you got.”

“This broad has really gotten to you, Larry. I didn't realize you were such a bag of mush.”

Larry smiled. He picked up McDeere's desk, held it in the air for ten seconds, and put it down gently on the cracked linoleum. “I ain't nobody's weak sister.” He walked to the door and turned back to Burn before opening it. “Just take the case. Good money in it, and Mrs. O'Hara ain't too hard on the eyes.”

Larry ushered her in.

To say Mrs. O'Hara was not too hard on the eyes was like saying a gunshot to the head stung a little. Not beautiful, no, but very attractive nonetheless, with a quality that made you want to hold her in your arms way past the legal limit. Her chestnut brown hair rested lightly on her shoulders and looked quite happy to be there. Her ocean-blue eyes invited you to take a dip while warning that drowning was likely. Yeah…she was attractive. A real dish.

“Mrs. O'Hara, this is Burn McDeere, our top operative. He will be more than happy to help you.” He gave McDeere a wink and closed the door. Three seconds later he stuck his head back in and whispered loudly, “Harry, you wanna come with me?”

“Sure, sure,” Harry said slowly, eyeing Mrs. O'Hara. “Come with you.” The Malloy twins left McDeere and Mrs. O'Hara alone in the office.

McDeere shook the delicately gloved hand she offered and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Won't you please sit down, Mrs. O'Hara?”

She sat in the chair and slowly crossed her long, slender legs. McDeere kept his eyes on hers and thanked the Lord for blessing him with superb peripheral vision. She tugged suggestively at each gloved finger, then placed her gloves neatly in her lap. Burn stared at them helplessly.

“Would you like a coffee or … ?”

“I'm fine, thank you, Mr. McDeere.”

“Please, call me Burn.”

“Unusual name. Were your parents arsonists?”

“Less romantic than that, I'm afraid. Dad just liked the idea of verbs as names.”

“Lovely.”

“I'm sure my sister Runny wouldn't agree. Cigarette?”

“Why, thank you.” She parted her lips slowly and put the cigarette to her mouth in a way that would have gotten her arrested in twenty of the forty-eight states. She held McDeere's hand steady as he offered a light. He hoped she couldn't feel his pulse. His heart was pounding like an over-caffeinated jackrabbit's. She blew out the match and smiled at him. The smoke she exhaled hung between them like a question mark. But there was no question in her eyes. Allyson O'Hara knew exactly what she did to men.

“How can I help you, Mrs. O'Hara?”

“I suppose I should start at the beginning.”

“Tends to make it easier to follow.”

“I'm very rich. My father owns the Faren Heights Winery in the Napa Valley. You've heard of it?”

“Actually I have. A bit of a fan of the pinot. I know I look like a bourbon guy, but I'm fond of the grape.” McDeere did indeed look like a bourbon guy. Strongly built with broad shoulders and an ever-present five o'clock shadow, Burn McDeere was craggily handsome to those who knew what craggily handsome meant.

“Not
excessively
fond, I hope.”

“I know my limit…with wine, anyway.”

“Good to know.” She smiled. “The winery has always done very well, even during Prohibition. Daddy kept us afloat, I'm sure not always legally.”

“Legality doesn't always mean what's right. And it's a God-given right for Americans to get tight on the giggle juice.”

“You don't strike me as a religious man, Mr. McDeere. You believe in God?”

“Haven't been able to find him yet. Even with all the clues at my disposal. And I'm a pretty good detective. I try to keep an open mind.”

“I certainly hope that's true. Daddy has left the country for a couple of weeks, leaving me to take care of things while he's away.”

“Where is he?”

“He's in Argentina chasing down the blue-throated macaw with some friends. Daddy has always loved birds. He is an amateur ophthalmologist.”

“Your father helps birds with eye complaints?”

“Isn't that the study of…? No, wait, I meant entomologist.”

“Still off. I think the word you're looking for is ornithologist.”

“Say, you're pretty smart.” Allyson O'Hara leaned forward slightly, and her eyes shone with interest.

“In some things,” Burn replied, leaning back. “Other times, dumb as a bag of hammers.”

“Hammers are very useful if you need something nailed.” She looked away demurely.

Burn choked on his spit.

“Anyway, as I was saying, I'm in charge right now and I have a little problem.”

“Mrs. O'Hara, being the amazing detective that I am, I assumed that you would not be here if everything in your garden was rosy.”

She lowered her voice and leaned forward again. “I need you to find something for me. Something very important.”

“What is it you'd like me to find?”

“My car keys.”

McDeere looked at her for a long moment. “Your car keys?”

“My car keys,” she repeated.

“You want me to find your car keys?”

“I hope you're better at finding things than you are at understanding plain English.”

“Why are these car keys so important to you?”

“They start the car.”

McDeere couldn't tell whether she was joking. And that, he reasoned, was a quality that could make a woman dangerous. “Is your car missing?”

“No. Just the keys.”

“How did you get here?”

“Mr. McDeere, I wouldn't be a very impressive rich person if I had only one car, now, would I?”

“Is there any reason you can think of why someone would take your keys but not your car?”

“I never said someone took my keys. I've misplaced them.” She examined her perfectly manicured nails.

“So.” McDeere made a temple with his fingers. “You are hiring me to find your keys?”

“I thought I was clear.”

“You've just
misplaced
them?”

“Well, yes. It's a big house and I have too many things to look after. I can't waste time looking for something so—trivial. Daddy trusted me to keep everything in order. I would hate to disappoint him.”

McDeere shook his head in disbelief. “Mrs. O'Hara, don't take this the wrong way, but I think you're loony.”

She looked at him with a smile that was maddening. She opened her purse, took out five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, and placed them in front of him.

He looked down at the money, then met her glance. “Well, you may be loony, but your Benjamin Franklins make complete sense. All right, Mrs. O'Hara, you have just hired yourself a private detective. May I ask—have you actually
tried
looking for your keys?”

“Oh, yes. A full five minutes. But then I got distracted and stopped. Whenever I look excessively, my eyes get tired and are useless for the rest of the day. I have many things to look at in a day. I need my eyes fresh.” Her eyes were a bewitching blue, framed by ridiculously long lashes.

“Yes, of course. Fresh.”

“Usually when I return from taking the car out, I hang the keys on a little hook by the door.”

“But not this time.”

“No, not this time.”

“How big is this house of yours?”

“Twenty-two rooms, plus seven bathrooms, a garage that fits five cars, a cabana by the pool, a guest house. And of course the vineyard. Your basic.”

“Yeah, basic. That reminds me. I've got to get my Louis XVI armoire rewaxed. And I take it you are not the only one living there?”

“Don't be silly. There's a staff of twelve. Butler, chauffeur, cook, assorted maids, and of course Malaya.”

“Malaya?”

“She looks after my son.”

“Filipino?”

“No, he's a little white boy. Right now, Daddy's given most of the staff a few weeks off. There's not really a lot to do this time of year. The butler is there right now, and a cleaning staff comes in once a week.”

“Must be a hardship. Having to prepare your own meals and such.”

Allyson looked at him with a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Why, Mr. McDeere. There are things I can do in the kitchen that would make your head spin.”

McDeere blinked rapidly three times and tried to recover his power of speech. He fought the urge to shake his head to clear it.

Allyson smiled sweetly. “Oh, would it help if you had a picture of the keys?”

“You have a picture…of your car keys?”

“I was very much into photography for a little while. Took pictures constantly. Still life was my specialty, although my nudes were quite lovely too.” Her gaze fell to the floor as though she were embarrassed, but Burn wasn't buying it. Wouldn't buy it even if she threw in a carton of Lucky Strikes. Allyson rummaged through her purse and brought out a photo. “Here you go.”

Burn looked at the picture. The composition was beautiful and the lighting was exquisite. Attached to the key ring, among seven or eight keys, was a small replica of a bird. A falcon.

“What's with the bird?”

“I told you. Daddy likes birds.”

“Hmm,” said McDeere. “Had a hunch there'd be a better story than that. Feel bad. Usually my hunches are good.”

“Nothing interesting about it, really.” She jotted a note on a piece of paper. “Here's the address in Napa. Could you be there tomorrow morning at nine?”

“That's fine,” Burn replied.

“Just ring the doorbell.” She looked deep into his eyes. “You know how to ring a doorbell, don't you? Just push the button till somebody comes.”

They sat there looking at each other for an interminable moment. Burn felt every drop of moisture leave his mouth. This woman had his number and was dialing it hard. “Nine it is,” he croaked.

The next day, as McDeere drove his newly washed coal-black Auburn Convertible Cabriolet to the O'Hara house, he was troubled. Nothing about the case seemed right. Why would a wine heiress hire a shamus to find a set of worthless car keys? It could be that his first impression was right: just a dippy dame with too much sugar and way, way too much spice. Even as he thought it, he dismissed it. McDeere had a feeling she wasn't as shallow as she made out. No, that dame was deeper than a Buddhist in a mine shaft. He also knew she wasn't being totally honest with him. It wouldn't be the first time a dame had used the truth like a disposable hankie, but it didn't mean he had to like it. He hated lying and liars. In fact, he was almost a pathological truth teller. Had learned through some bad experiences to tone it down. If you tell the frail who hired you straight out that her man is crushing corsages with a nightclub canary, then suddenly
you're
the one dodging the crockery. Sometimes you've got to soft-soap it a little.