Songs in the Key of Death (12 page)

“You’ll get nowhere on that ankle.”

“Pain is all in the mind. I’ve turned off worse than this when I had to.”

Birtles hit the door with his fist. It was old-fashioned, a solid, heavy panel. “Merlot!”

“I’ve been in three jails and got out every time. You never had a hope of holding me.” His voice drew away. “Goodbye, Mr. Birtles, you’ll never see me again. Too bad—I like you.” The outer door closed.

Birtles went back to the bed. “Barbie, I’m going to make some noise. I have to break the door. Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.”

She gave him the wise, mature smile—his mother encour-aging him to do his best. He went back to the door and balanced himself. It took five lunges to put his boot through the panel. A minute later, he was outside and running for the stairs.

The lobby was deserted, nobody on duty at the desk. Merlot was crafty enough to be hiding somewhere inside, but Birtles decided to have a quick look on the street. Self-hypnosis or whatever, he couldn’t be covering the ground very quickly.

Outside, he saw a crowd gathering at the corner of Bayswater Road. He stared and could hardly believe his eyes when he made out what looked to be the familiar blue Mini. Running in that direction, he picked out Anitra Colahan’s peach coiffure glistening under the street lamp in the midst of the crowd.

He reached her and when she saw him she took his arm for support. “Oh, God, he ran right in front of the car! You weren’t here when I got back with the police. I was cruising the neighborhood looking for you. I turned the corner and he was running across—not running, limping.”

“It’s O.K.” Birtles looked down, saw the pale-blue eyes staring. Somebody would have to close them for him now. “That’s Merlot, the man who was holding Barbara. They drugged her to rob her. He’s killed a lot of people.”

Anitra turned away. A police car was pulling up. “Here they come,” she said grimly. “Three tries to get my license and now I’m going to lose it.”

Birtles looked from her to the dead man and back at her angry face. All right, so there were signs all around that it was indeed the selfish, imperfect world Merlot believed it to be. Not so long ago it was a jungle and people were eating each other.

“When you’ve given the cops your statement,” he said, “come back to the hotel. I’ll be with Barbie, waiting for the doctor. When she’s taken care of, you can drive me home.”

As he walked away, Birtles realized he’d just told Anitra that he loved her.

Fear is a
Killer

Originally published in
Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine,
December 1986.

WITH HIS HEART POUNDING, WALTER WINGBEAT SAT AT the boardroom table half listening to what Clay Fetterson was telling the client. “Nor do we usually formulate an advertising plan before the product is developed and tested. But in this case, at your request—”

As the head of R&B Advertising continued his preamble, Wingbeat glanced from face to face around the mahogany oval. The client, Norman Imrie, president of Metro Distillers, was looking noble. Sensing Wingbeat’s attention, Imrie returned an encouraging smile. Tough, but fair and decent—that was Mr. Imrie.

“So—we have prepared, among other exhibits,” Fetterson continued, “a media plan. But before I ask our media manager to take us through it, may I voice anxiety over the name of the new product. A liqueur distilled in America is a great idea. Using the flowers of an indigenous desert plant gives us something to talk about in the advertising. But for a drink, the name Yucca...”

Wingbeat was turning his pages. He remembered what it was to breathe deeply but the technique had escaped him for the moment. The imaginary iron strapping around his chest was at maximum clamp. Pinprick bubbles of light fizzed around the periphery of his vision.

A hand touched his. A voice murmured, “Are you all right?” It was Penelope Good, the girl from England. He had hired her as his assistant three months ago. The department was in need of people but Wingbeat was afraid to hire. What if he chose the wrong person? In Miss Good, it looked as if he had brought in somebody very good indeed. And now he was a afraid of that.

He managed a smile, glazed eyes and sick lips that would have stampeded nurses in an intensive-care unit. “Butterflies,” he whispered, fluttering a flat hand. “Okay once I start.”

She made a kissing face at him. It was way out of line, he hadn’t even taken her to lunch yet. Her honey hair was much too smart for the money she earned. How did she manage? Her suit looked expensive. Her blue eyes were calm. Penelope Good fitted in around the executive table like the maroon-leather armchairs themselves.

“Not to worry,” she mouthed silently, “I’m with you.”

Apprehension about the new brand-name had been expressed to Norman Imrie before. “Be assured, gentlemen and lady,” he said, “the name Yucca has been thoroughly tested. I went around my office and spoke to twenty people. Told them my wife had come up with a concept and a name for a new liqueur. Yucca. What did they think? Not one negative reaction. One hundred percent in favor.”

Clay Fetterson’s grin became brighter than a thousand suns. Wingbeat had to avert his eyes as the boss said, “Can’t argue with research as conclusive as that. On we go. Let’s take a look at the media plan. Everybody got a copy? Fine. Wally, will you lead us through this?”

“Uh, sure, Clay.” Wingbeat was alone, terrified. “These are rough figures, guesstimates, because I was told I wouldn’t see budget until after the taste-testing, which I understand is not happening until—”

“Could you just take us through it, Wally?”

“Sure, Clay. Uh, page one is a summary of the major markets, with some additional weighting in—” The iron bands tightened. Wingbeat’s breath was reduced to a flutter. “Oh, wow,” he said, as panic took over.

“Everything okay, Wally?”

Elbows on the table, Wingbeat put a flat hand on either side of his face, shutting out witnesses to his humiliation. To die like this in public—Trouble breathing. Just a minute.”

“Is there pain?” The observers were riveted. They were not callous people but if the media manager went in mid-presentation—would that be a story to dominate drinks this evening.

“Not a lot of pain,” Wingbeat said. He was coming out of it. It was stress, tension. “Have to get my breath.”

“Should the man try to continue?” Norman Imrie asked. He was less entertained than the others. “Give him a rest.”

“Exactly right,” Fetterson said. “Can you take over, Miss Good? Wally, slide over to the couch. Put your feet up.”

As Wingbeat left the table, Penelope Good unbuttoned her jacket to reveal a nicely rounded white silk blouse. Placing a fist on her hip authoritatively, she said in a voice worthy of the Royal Shakespeare Company, “The summary requires less than a glance at this time. May I direct your attention to the following pages, where, market by market, we see the media breakdown. Forgive the word ‘breakdown’, Walter,” she said and everybody laughed, including Wingbeat.

As was his habit, Wingbeat worked a couple of extra hours after closing to give the Friday-evening traffic a chance to clear. By the time he drove home and parked his car in the driveway that separated his cedar-and-stone bungalow from the brick-and-stucco cottage next door, his wife and son had finished their supper. Corliss was in a deckchair on the back lawn under one of the stately poplars, holding a depleted glass of gin and tonic in her hand. A glow and babble from the television room showed where young Philip was hiding.

“Cold plate in the fridge,” Corliss said as she accepted her evening kiss. There was a book opened face-down on her lap, something heavy from the non-fiction bestsellers list. Corliss Wingbeat was never seen without a book, but she seldom read anything clear through. Her last conquest dated back several years—Jonathon Livingston Seagull.

Wingbeat ate his salad standing up in the kitchen. Taking food out-of-doors in view of the neighbors gave him a queasy feeling. After rinsing and stacking his plate, he wandered through to change this clothes. On the way past the TV room, he looked in on Philip, who smiled tenderly at him as he reduced the sound.

“Evening, Pip,” Walter said to his eleven-year-old. “Shouldn’t you be outside enjoying the glorious fresh air?”

“Same air in here, Father.” The boy indicated the open window.

“You have a point.” Wingbeat lingered.

“Is everything all right?” Pip was watching his father’s face.

“Just fine! It’s the weekend!” The distressed adman clapped his hands and executed a buck-and-wing. The step was not badly done. A generation ago, he had sparkled as one of the policemen in a high school production of The Pirates of Penzance.

“You look sad, Father.”

“The mature face in repose, my son. Nothing to be alarmed about. How’s this?” Wingbeat hooked an index finger in either side of his mouth and dragged his lips upwards into a manic smile. At the same time he let his eyes go crossed. Philip fell over, laughing and rolling on the carpet and Wingbeat walked away feeling good for the first time in days.

When he appeared on the back lawn ten minutes later, dressed in slacks and T-shirt and his recently whited tennis shoes, the sun was setting. Its last rays picked out the awkwardly sporty figure and made him glow. The raucous voice of Wingbeat’s neighbor, Larry Boxer, filled the silence.

“Hey, Wally,” he bellowed, “dim your shoes!”

As Wingbeat dragged a chair across the grass and sat close to his wife, she muttered, “Why don’t you tell that oaf to shut his big mouth?”

“He’s only kidding.”

“You let people push you around, Walter. It isn’t good for you. What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid.”

“You are.” Corliss raised her voice just enough. “You reek fear.”

“I’ve never seen the sense in contention. Why argue with people? Cooperation is more productive.” He had not played his trump card in months. Tonight it seemed risky but he threw it down anyway. “It works for me. I’m the head of media in one of Canada’s leading ad agencies.” Secretly, Wingbeat knew why they kept him in the job. Because he worked all the hours God sends, not employing extra staff, keeping the department budget low. He would never say this to his wife. He was afraid to.

Corliss finished her third drink. She was feeling comfortably aggressive. “How is the smarmy limey?” she asked.

He knew she was referring to Penelope Good. There had been bad blood between the two women since an office party a couple of months ago at which the English newcomer mistook Corliss Wingbeat for catering staff, handing her an empty glass. “Who?”

“You know who. Penelope Put-down. I’d keep an eye on her. She wants your job. And God help her if she takes it.” Corliss modified her threat. “God help you.”

“We can help each other,” Penelope said, glancing at Clay Fetterson for confirmation. The hotel dining room was medium busy for two o’clock. It was unusual for Walter Wingbeat to be lunching in such surroundings at such an hour. His normal lunch was tuna salad on whole wheat taken at his desk along with yet another mug of company coffee.

“My idea exactly,” the managing director said. “You obviously need relief, Wally. We don’t want a repetition of the seizure episode last week. Bad impression in front of the client. I know it’s illogical but it could make him think R&B Advertising is not healthy.”

“It hasn’t happened before,” Wingbeat said. “Shouldn’t happen again.” Fear flooded his belly.

“We’re seeing to that,” the boss said. “Penny will take on the executive responsibilities. She will confront ferocious clients in their dens. Meanwhile, the wealth of Wingbeat experience will still be ours to tap when and as we need it.”

Penelope could only repeat what she had said before. “We can help each other.” But her grin was tight and she swallowed without drinking or eating anything.

“And now,” Fetterson said, “we’d better get back to the office. At four-thirty, we taste-test Metro Distillers’ newest product, Yucca Liqueur.”

“Yeeuch!” Penelope said, pretending to recoil as the managing director landed a playful punch on her arm.

Testing a client’s product was almost like being let out of school. Opinions were so widely sought that every member of the agency staff, from Clay Fetterson himself on down to the lowliest filing clerk, was welcomed into the boardroom to join the party and put forward an opinion. This product being made with alcohol, the session was scheduled for late in the working day. By five o’clock closing time the room looked and sounded something like happy hour at a neighborhood bar.

Several bottles of Yucca stood open on the mahogany table, protected now with a linen cover. Almost everyone punctuated the first sip of the liqueur with the spontaneous reaction—“Yeeuch!”

“That name has got to go,” a copywriter on the account would say and the crowd would laugh.

But the sober truth was, the stuff did taste vile. Nobody wanted a second glass of it—except for Penelope Good. The English import swilled the liqueur down and became merrier by the minute. “Jolly nice,” she commented. “Not finishing your sample, love? Waste not, want not, I’ll just tip your glass into mine.”

Wingbeat was among those who abominated the mickey-mouse booze. But, a solid agency man, he appreciated the fact that Yucca was the brainchild of the client’s wife and he knew they would have to sell it.