The Hammett Hex (2 page)

Tell them what they want to hear.

—The Kelly Rules

I
T BEGAN ON
a sunny June morning, over a delicious breakfast served at eight sharp in the conservatory of Van Alst House, the crumbling mansion where I'm lucky to live. Birds were trilling from the mature trees surrounding the expansive Van Alst property. A vase of French white lilacs scented the air, and from the windows we could see clusters of pink, white and red peonies beginning to bloom.

Walter the Pug was dancing around and wagging his little stump of a tail to show his appreciation for the day and the breakfast leftovers to come. Walter belongs to my friend Karen Smith, who married my uncle Lucky not that long ago. As their life appears to be one long mobile honeymoon, Walter now spends most of his time with me. That's a good thing.

But once I polished off my plate of sizzling golden French toast with whipped cream and mixed berries, plus a bracing serving of espresso, I had the nerve to ask for a week off. What was I thinking?

Vera Van Alst glanced up from the
New York Times
crossword. Her glance turned to a glower. Although the sun was beaming through the windows of the conservatory, I felt dark clouds gather.

Uncle Kev paused in the middle of raising his forkful of French toast and grinned. Vera's cook and housekeeper, Signora Panetone, gasped. I did my best not to grimace, even though exaggerated facial expressions seemed the order of the day.

Vera pushed back the fraying cuffs of her drab beige sweater. “Absolutely not, Miss Bingham. I do not pay you to take vacations. What do you think this is? A charitable institution?”

I opened my mouth to give a calm and reasoned summary of why I should be entitled to a week off. “Obviously you're not a charity,” I said. “But as I have been working steadily for nearly two years and I—”

Those dark clouds began to drift across the bright June sky.

“We can't lose sight of the Hammett purchase. Time is of the essence.” Vera turned back to her puzzle and raised her hand to cut off a rebuttal from my end.

This kind of discussion wasn't all that unusual for breakfast at Van Alst House. I'd grown accustomed to Vera's bad temper, ghastly wardrobe and unreasonable demands. I didn't let her get me down. She might be rich, living in a stately home with staff to look after her whims. She might indulge her passion of book collecting with a single-minded lack of concern for other people. She might always expect to get her own way. Still, I had it good. My job came with a charming and cozy attic apartment and the best food I'd ever had. I had a flexible schedule, a job I loved and a chance to make a bit of money on the side. Life was great. I'd even adjusted to having Uncle Kev, that charming time bomb, sitting across from me in the conservatory in the mornings and in the formal dining room in the night. Kev
worked as our maintenance man, gardener and “other duties as required” guy. So far, no real disasters, if you don't count the exploding still, but I knew our peaceful days were numbered.

There was no way I could let Vera prevent me from taking my first vacation in I couldn't remember how long. Let's just say, I'd been beyond broke before I started here, and since my first day on the job, we had been remarkably busy. In case you don't know, my job was finding first editions of mysteries from the Golden Age of Detection and brokering deals that enhanced Vera's collection. Generally pleasant work although occasionally saving Vera's life seemed to fall under my duties. I could be spared for seven days. I wasn't an indentured serf, after all.

“Fine,” I said, stiffening my spine and looking straight at Vera. “I'll take the time off without pay.”

It wouldn't do my savings much good to lose a week's salary, but if Vera actually had the nerve to accept the offer, it would still be worth it. After all, Tyler Dekker had anted up for two airline tickets to San Francisco and a hotel, his way of making up for a few rocky patches in our relationship. We'd both had a bit too much murder in our lives and this trip was supposed to help us get back to normal. I had found myself dreaming about a relaxed pleasant vacation without a care in the world.

San Francisco was the old haunt of my uncle Seamus, now living as legend only, possibly in Rio or Tahiti. I'd heard stories about Seamus since I was a child. Although Seamus vanished from our lives before I was born, his sage advice continues on in our family as “the Kelly Rules.” I would get to visit and see the spots where he'd pulled off some spectacular jobs. Perhaps I wouldn't make too much of it in front of my favorite police officer.

Vera was staring at her crossword puzzle as if the conversation had ended.

“You really shouldn't trust that Dekker guy enough to go away with him, Jordie,” Uncle Kev said, before stuffing his mouth again. “What do you really know about him?”

What did I know about Tyler? I knew he was honest and stubborn and extremely neat. I knew we had rescued each other from disaster and near-death more than once. I knew he'd been willing to change jobs to keep our romance going. I knew we both loved dogs and chocolate. And apparently—although this was new information to me—he also had a thing for classic noir mysteries.

I hoped we could work past our misunderstandings and different values, because I also knew the spark was there.

“He is a cop, Kev, not a serial killer.”

“Police officer. That says it all.”

Kev's point could have been made by any of my uncles. I was the first person in my large, larcenous family to take the path of honest work. My relatives had put a bit of a strain on my relationship with Smiley, but we had worked past it, mostly. It was my side that couldn't trust a cop, even if he had left the job he loved and moved to the next police jurisdiction to avoid conflict of interest issues.

I said, “Don't worry.”

Kev shrugged and reached for the maple syrup. “Be very careful is all I'm sayin', Jordie. That's the other side of the country and people get sucked out of planes all the time.”

“For the record, Kev, people do not ‘get sucked out of planes all the time,' and even if they did, which they do not, what would that have to do with Tyler Dekker?”

“Like I said, he's a cop.”

There are some arguments that just go round and round. Most of Uncle Kev's, for instance.

Vera had upgraded her expression to a full-fledged scowl. She glanced up and met my eyes. “You are needed here, Miss Bingham. End of discussion.”

I said, “Hold on a minute—”

Vera whirled in her wheelchair. “Take it or leave it, Miss Bingham. Decide if you want the job. Or not.”

I felt like I'd been slapped. Of course I wanted the job. I needed the job. I
loved
the job. But a week off without pay? That wasn't asking much. What was wrong with her?

I was pretty sure Vera was bluffing. Should I call that bluff? This position was the most important part of my plan to get back to grad school. With built-in food and accommodations and that chance to sell a few books on my own, I was able to save almost everything I made.

Vera was spoiled and demanding; that must be obvious. She could have remembered that I had saved her life, her reputation and her books more than once. Maybe she thought she was being funny. She wasn't always clear on the finer points of humor.

I glanced at Kev and then back to Vera, but they were both gawking at the signora.

Signora Panetone is tiny, round and black-clad with an unlikely ebony bun that looks like it's been painted on her scalp. She will never see eighty again. At this moment she was hovering with a pale green platter and was just about to transfer a piece of French toast onto Vera's plate. Getting food to our boss usually takes planning as Vera never willingly eats anything. The signora jerked back the platter, pivoted and walked away. Vera, Kev and I regarded her broad, black-garbed body lumbering toward the kitchen.

Time ticked by as we sat there openmouthed. Such a thing had never happened in my time with Vera. The signora has worked at Van Alst House since Vera was a child. She is devoted. The door to the kitchen swung closed behind the wide black behind.

We may have still been staring two minutes later. The signora emerged with two little red spots glowing on her wrinkled cheeks. Her hands were on her hips.

“
Ragazza viziata!
” She turned and the door swung closed
behind her again. I'd picked up a fair amount of Italian in my time at Van Alst House, but this was a new one. I thought it meant “spoiled brat.”

A hush fell over the conservatory. I could hear Uncle Kev's breathing. I'm pretty sure he was worried about losing his four or possibly five square meals a day if I got fired. Maybe he'd have to go too, losing out on all the food and the endless supply of Jolly Ranchers that Vera kept in the house for him.

Still, I was thrilled by this unlikely ally. Unless I had misunderstood what had upset the signora, Vera had crossed a line. And, in fact, she
had
crossed a line. Not only was I a loyal employee, but I had
also
put my life on the line for Vera more than once and I deserved reasonable treatment. And I needed to seize the moment.

“So,” I said, “back to my question. I'll take the week off with no pay, if you'd like, or I'll make up the time before or after the trip and take the pay. What will it be?”

But Vera was watching the door. Could she have been nervous? Not possible. No history of that whatsoever.

“The Hammett item takes precedence over everything, Miss Bingham.” Obviously, she was prepared to stick to her guns although I thought I heard a wobble in that gravelly voice. But I was also sticking to my guns. Smiley had bought nonrefundable tickets, which might not have been the most practical plan as he'd done it before I'd agreed. It was a big deal for him. San Francisco might have been a romantic city, but Smiley was such a fan of Sam Spade and the Continental Op that—oh, what was the matter with me?

“Exactly,” I said, smiling triumphantly.

“What are you jabbering about, Miss Bingham?” Vera said. She'd lost a bit of her fire when the signora stormed out.

From the kitchen came a one-sided conversation in Italian.

“
Cattiva! Schifosa! Bruta!
” What? Ugly? Wicked? Bad? Wow.

The kitchen door swung open and the signora emerged, empty handed, arms crossing her round body. She gave Vera what is known around here as
malocchio
, the evil eye. I'd just never expected to see that directed at Vera. It suddenly occurred to me that Vera had learned her scowling from this unexpected teacher.

They glared each other down. The musical score from
High Noon
hummed in my brain. Walter whimpered and pushed up against my leg. Good Cat and Bad Cat, the unpredictable and ever-present Siamese, were nowhere to be seen.

“You let
la povera raggaza
go to vacation, Vera.”

Generally, I wouldn't like to be thought of as the “poor girl,” but these were desperate times.

Uncle Kev's baby blues almost popped out. I'm sure my own eyes were hovering in midair, like a frame out of
Roger Rabbit
.

Vera opened her mouth slowly and ominously.

This was not a light moment.

I said in what I hoped was an up-tempo voice, “San Francisco was Hammett's town, Vera. He's a legend there, part of the culture. Surely that's where we'll find a signed first edition of
Red Harvest
, right there in Hammett's old neighborhood. And with the shipping on someone else's dime. It's settled.”

The signora viewed with me suspicion. Probably there was little she'd have understood in that sentence.

Vera nodded slowly. You'd almost think she was grateful for my Hail Mary pass.

The signora spoke. “Jordan needs vacation. She saved your life, Vera. You pay Jordan, Vera. Don't take 'vantage.”

Vera sputtered. Keeping face had always been important to the Van Alst family, and now there was only Vera to uphold the tradition. “Fine. Suit yourself, Fiammetta.”

The signora's black eyes shone victoriously. Her cheeks were flushed with triumph. She smoothed her vast floral apron like a general dusting off his epaulettes. I hoped I wasn't dreaming.

“Don't let things get behind. I won't tolerate that. Twelve hundred, tops. Negotiate. I'll give you cash,” Vera muttered in my general direction. That sounded like the real Vera. I took her words to mean my vacation to San Francisco was a go and I would pay the price for it on my return.

“That's good then. I should go make arrangements.”

“You know I can't stand chirping, Miss Bingham.”

“I couldn't agree more,” I chirped.

The signora emerged again with the French toast, and Uncle Kev reached happily forward with his plate. The signora beamed at him like he had just cured world hunger. Vera turned back to her crossword.

Peace and harmony fell upon our land. Except I had not the slightest idea how I was going to get that signed first edition of
Red Harvest
. But you only live once. And I'd cross that golden gate when I came to it. I was going to San Francisco.