Partners In Crime

Partners in Crime

By Katy Munger

(writing as
Gallagher Gray)

A Hubbert & Lil
Mystery

Copyright © 2011 by Katy
Munger

Smashwords Edition Published
by Thalia Press

This novel is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of
either the author or publisher.
 

Smashwords Edition, License
Notes

This ebook is licensed for
your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or
given away to other people. If you would like to share this book
with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each
recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or
it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to
Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting
the hard work of this author.

When the phone rang, he was in the middle of
a bizarre dream involving giant marshmallows, burning sun and a
motorboat endlessly circling. He raised his head from the pillow
and squinted, but Brenda's huge backside obscured the clock. He
shoved her out of the way and her loud purring abruptly stopped. As
he reached for the receiver, she turned her head and regarded him
with yellow eyes, tail switching back and forth in annoyance. Eddie
raised his massive head from his favorite spot on the heat coil of
the electric blanket to stare at both of them sleepily.

"Yes?" T.S. peered at the illuminated dial
of his clock and saw that it was nearly 8:00 A.M. He sat suddenly,
pulling the phone onto the rug with a crash. Both cats stared at
him in disgust.

"Yes?" he asked again. He would be late for
work—the first time in thirty years. Where was the alarm?

"Mr. Hubbert?" The voice was female, but so
breathless he could barely make out his own name.

"This is T.S. Hubbert," he said firmly into
the phone. "To whom am I speaking?" Did he have any early
appointments?

The voice grew stronger. "This is
Sheila."

"Sheila?" He swung a leg onto the floor.
"I'm on my way now."

"How did you know?" she asked.

"Know what?"

"That they'd stabbed him?"

He stared at the receiver. "Is this Sheila
O'Reilly from Sterling & Sterling?"

"Of course it is!" Her breathlessness gave
way to indignation. "Who else would it be? Mr. Hubbert, what is the
matter with you? I called to tell you. They've stabbed Mr.
Cheswick."

"What?"

"Yes. They've stabbed him. Right here at
Sterling & Sterling. In the Partners' Room." Her voice
unraveled and wavered. "My mother was the one who found him."

He stood up and stared at the controls of
his electric blanket. No wonder he was covered in sweat. Brenda or
Eddie had nosed the heat setting up again and it was nearly to nine
on the dial.

"I'm sorry to disturb you on your first day
of retirement," Sheila added politely.

Of course. He sat down again on the edge of
his bed. It was Friday, March 1. He was a retired man. It was to
have been his first day to sleep late in three decades.

"Someone stabbed Robert Cheswick?"

"Yes." Sheila was efficient once again,
accustomed to supplying him with information. "I rode in with my
mother as usual—you know how she likes to be here no later than
7:30. Today she was a couple of minutes late and really in a tizzy
about it. I left to take the elevator up to the third floor, but I
hadn't even gotten down the hall when I heard her screaming. Of
course, I went flying back and it was awful. Just awful. He was
lying back in his chair."

"You saw him?" He was fully awake now, one
eye on his closet. What did one wear when one was retired?

He heard voices in the background and
frantic whispers from Sheila.

"Sheila? I'm still here." Perhaps his tan
slacks and a sweater?

"Hubbert?" An overconfident male voice
blasted through the receiver. Brenda and Eddie heard the echo and
stirred.

T.S. sighed. Edgar Hale.

"Hubbert? Are you there, man? Say
something."

A steady drizzle dribbled down his windows.
It was the perfect day to sleep late.

"Yes, I'm here. Of course, I'm here. Where
else would I be at 8:00 A.M?"

"You'd be here," the voice boomed back.
Edgar Hale was nearing sixty, but his voice would make a drill
sergeant proud.

"I'm retired now, Edgar.
Remember?"
So someone had stabbed Robert
Cheswick? It was certainly unexpected.

"Not any more," the voice ordered. "This is
serious. The girl is right. They've stabbed Robert."

"Who is 'they'? Why do you keep saying
'they'?"

"How the hell should I know? That's the job
of the police."

"Then why are you calling me?" He was
retired now. He could talk back.

''Stop talking back and get down here. The
ninny that took your place will make a mess of it. Start handing
out employee anxiety surveys or some other nonsense. I need someone
who can take charge. I can see the headlines now. There has never
been tabloid mention of Sterling & Sterling in two centuries.
You've got to help us out."

"I can't stop the press, Edgar. You know
that."

"Never mind. You know what I mean. We need
you here."

Whether they really needed him or not, it
was gratifying to hear the Managing Partner beg. Besides, in all
his years as Personnel Manager at Sterling & Sterling, no one
had ever been murdered before. At least not in the Partners'
Room.

"Be right down," T.S.
promised.
A murder? Well, it was certainly
more interesting than interviewing the slack-jawed sons of
clients.
He whistled as he pulled on his
slacks and a sweater. No tie. He was his own man now, master of his
destiny, no longer enslaved by the confines of Sterling &
Sterling's fashion code. Besides, it would drive Edgar Hale
crazy.

He trudged down the dripping steps into the
blackness of the subway entrance, joining the affluent throng
stampeding toward the downtown train. The light bulb was broken and
he pressed into the damp and stamping crowd blindly. Water dripped
off of rain hats and umbrellas, spattering his face. He took
perverse pleasure in possibly being the only man within miles not
wearing a tie. It was really quite absurd—millions of men wearing
strips of cloth around their necks each morning. Why had he never
realized it before?

He tuned out the sounds of an ongoing battle
in his subway car. Just the usual morning squabble. An impeccably
dressed executive had inadvertently snagged an extremely loud old
woman's stockings with his umbrella.

T.S. had automatically
bought the
New York Times
but, after seeing no mention of the murder,
occupied himself instead with wondering who in the world might have
stabbed Robert Cheswick.

It could have been anyone, really. Even him.
He had not particularly liked the man. In fact, he had loathed him
for over twenty-five years. And he suspected nearly everyone else
did, too, with the exception of the bank's German and Japanese
clients, who seemed to find him secretly amusing.

In truth, Cheswick had been born and bred a
horse's ass and was as pompous as they came. By the time T.S. had
joined the firm thirty years before, Cheswick had already settled
down to a steady life of intimidating secretaries and junior
clerks. There had never been any question, what with his esteemed
ancestors, that Cheswick would rise to the very top. T.S.'s own
ascent had been far rockier and less assured.

But it wasn't the silver-spoon background
T.S. held against Cheswick. It was really his teeth. They were
large and protruding and when Cheswick laughed, he'd throw his head
up and bray, lips peeling back like a donkey's.

It was ironic that Cheswick had given the
big retirement speech honoring T.S. at his reception the night
before. Suppose Cheswick had been killed by a burglar simply
because he'd had the bad luck to be there late at night? On the
other hand, dead or not, T.S. wasn't sure he was ready to forgive
Cheswick yet for the dreadful speech he had made. His words would
have been more appropriate for a retiring mechanic, and the speech
was so tedious that the murderer could conceivably use it as
grounds for self-defense and claim that Cheswick was trying to bore
him to death.

Such thoughts were getting T.S. nowhere.
Thinking of the retirement party only reminded him of the golf
clubs. Why in the world had they given him golf clubs? He’d never
played in his life.

Golf clubs. It was depressing to think that
you could work somewhere for thirty years and your co-workers know
so little about who you really were.

It was this thought that would not leave his
mind as the subway screeched to a halt at the Wall Street stop. He
joined the crowd silently shuffling up the stairs and wondered: how
well had anyone really known Robert Cheswick?

Albert, the elevator man, had heard all
about the murder by the time T.S. arrived on the stonecut doorstep
of Sterling & Sterling, Private Bankers. A facade of
genteelness was being maintained at the discreet Wall Street
entrance, but T.S. spotted scores of official vehicles clogging the
side street and extra guards were posted there.

"Morning, Albert," T.S. said to the short,
trim man in a smart burgundy and silver uniform. The elevators were
automatic, but Sterling & Sterling maintained an air of
toadying service for older clients by posting Albert in the lobby
during working hours anyway. He'd been with the firm for more than
forty-five years and now earned $50,000 a year, for pushing the
occasional button and tipping his hat. Good heavens, when was the
old bugger going to retire?

"Morning, Mr. Hubbert, sir." Albert lowered
his bassetlike eyes respectfully. "Terrible thing, sir, isn't
it?"

T.S. nodded. "Certainly is terrible, Albert.
Right here in the Sterling offices." He found himself whistling a
tune as he watched the floor indicator crawl downward.

Albert eyed him suspiciously. "Surprised to
see you here, sir."

"What's that?" T.S. asked as an elevator
door opened and a throng of people thrust him into the car.

Albert stood on tiptoe and shouted. "I
thought you were retiring, sir."

"Yes, well." T.S. could think of no other
reply as the crowd turned to stare at him. He detected a pitying
air in several of them and was suddenly conscious of his tieless
collar peering out from under his raincoat. He imagined they were
probably staring at the inevitable neck wrinkles he had recently
discovered, creeping across his skin like a warning: there's an old
man lurking inside, biding his time, and there's nothing you can do
to stop him.

Well, let them stare. He was retired, but
not dead yet. He surveyed the smartly dressed employees and
determined that his best defense would be a strong offense.

"Morning, Mclntyre. Johnson. Felstein.
Jeffers. Miss Block." He nodded his head at each person as he took
inventory. Most were too engrossed in the folded papers open on
their arms to do more than mumble back. Cheswick could have been
stabbed in an elevator with twenty-five of this crowd and there
would have been no witnesses.

"Morning, Mr. Hubbert," an incredibly young
fellow echoed dutifully. His hair was slicked straight down on his
head with some kind of gel and brushed back in a style that made
him look like a pompous middle-aged gigolo with a sixteen-year-old
face.

T.S. recognized him vaguely. Someone's
nephew. A recent hire. He remembered now—a name like a candy
bar.

"Good morning, Clarkson," he replied with as
much savvy as he could muster. After what seemed an interminable
silence, the elevator doors opened and he escaped into his
kingdom—the third floor of Sterling & Sterling, Personnel
Department.

The receptionist had evidently been weeping
over the tragedy and was startled to see him. "Mr. Hubbert," she
said, dabbing at her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

He ignored her unintentioned insult; it was
a pity to be so young and uninformed. "Terrible thing, Margaret.
Terrible thing.'' He found himself shaking his head, a reflexive
action developed at countless employee funerals. He passed a series
of stunned employees, apparently so shocked over the murder that no
one was getting any work done. He sighed.