Reluctant Detective (3 page)

Anne spoke with an assuring confidence. She put her arm around Jacqui, smiled, and tweaked her nose playfully a few times until she got a smile in return.

“Okay?” she asked.

“Okay,” said Jacqui.

3

Anne knew she was feeling sorry for herself, but she took pleasure
in the warmth of her melancholy. Each wave of it was like a mouthful
of chocolate. Sweet. Almost sinful. Yet it was oh so tempting to drift
between the struggle of swimming and the surrender of drowning.

Memories of her dead parents, the broken body of her husband,
her meagre education, her ruined career, and poor Billy over
whelmed her. She was only thirty-five. Today she felt fifty-five. A worn-out fifty-five.

Yet, even in sadness, Anne had no delusions. This self-indulgence
was temporary. She would pull herself together in spite of her life
being a litany of tragedy. It wasn't in her nature to wallow too long in the muck.

In fact, she knew she didn't have any right to do so. Some things were more important than her self-interests and expectations. At the top of that short list was her daughter. Jacqueline had suffered,
too. She had to protect her, she had to be the strong one, the hopeful
one, the one with vision, the fixer of all things broken in her life.
That's what a mother does.

Anne had gone to the office the week following Billy's funeral.
Mostly out of habit. There was much to be done, but so far she'd had trouble focusing. On the third day, though, she finally dug into some of the paperwork. She started with the safe.

The office safe was a rat's nest of odds and ends. It was Billy's
private place and she'd respected that without him having to tell her. Anne spun the dial; the tumblers clicked like a roulette table. She snapped the handle and the vault door swung open.

Inside were three shelves, a gun rack, and several sliding metal drawers. The gun rack was the first thing to catch the eye. A riot
shotgun and two rifles stood in vertical slots. Next to them, hanging one under the other, were a snub-nosed Colt .38, an S&W .38 special
with a six-inch barrel, a small .32 revolver, and a 9 mm Beretta, the
standard US military version. Each was gun-metal blue and glinted
with a light coating of oil. An assortment of holsters hung from a hook. One of the drawers held neatly stacked boxes of cartridges
and spare magazines for the Beretta and the .303 rifle. The other
drawer was a dumping ground for personal papers, notebooks,
scraps of paper, memorabilia, and items that Billy had considered important, valuable, or sentimental.

She took the stack of papers, set it on Billy's desk, and sorted
through each piece. Phone numbers without names, expired
memberships, old postcards, and photos of who-knows-whom were
tossed in the trash. Insurance policies, rental agreements, wills,
legal documents, business licenses, and tax forms were stacked on
a corner of the desk in a pile she deemed “urgent.” The rest was boxed and put away in a corner of the office under “uncertain.”

“Packin' up, are you?” A woman about Anne's age stood in the doorway of Billy's inner office. She had come through the small
reception area without a sound. “Good,” the woman added. Then she walked passed Anne and moved to the window. “Nice view, too.”

“Who are you?”

“Patty Pacquet. The former Mrs. Wendell Dundas. Ring a bell?”
Patty's red hair took on a straw-like cast in the filtering sunlight.
Her arms were crossed when she came in, and they remained
crossed as she positioned herself in front of the desk.

“Mr. Dundas owns this block of buildings. He's our landlord.”

“Wrong tense, honey.
Was
your landlord.”

“What are you getting at?” Anne struggled to maintain civility.

“Wendell's dead.”

“What happened to him? I never heard a thing.”

“Too much rum, sun, sex… too much something in the Dominican.”

“What… I mean… how…?”

“Heart attack. I hear that's goin' 'round. Anyway, I didn't come for
a girly-chat. I'm the new landlady… owner… whatever you like…
I've got the office rented for the beginning of next month. Be out by then.”

“Hold on a minute. You've been divorced for years. What makes you think that you have control of the building? Billy would have
told me if that were the case.”

“Yeah, we're divorced all right. But Wendell Dumb-ass was so
happy to be single at work and play that he forgot to amend his will.
He's dead… I'm next of kin… I get everything. Remember… end of
the month.” Patty turned and walked out the door. She looked back
long enough to loose a self-satisfied grin. It was payback time, and she was enjoying every minute.

4

Anne locked the safe and the door to Billy's private office. She
grabbed a stack of envelopes from her desk in the reception area,
closed the door behind her, and headed downstairs. Outside, the air
was fresh and sweet. Somewhere nearby there were flowers, but their scent only reminded Anne of the floral arrangements at the
funeral home.

Less than a dozen steps brought Anne into The Blue Peter. Compet
ing smells of coffee, steak, and beer displaced any others. It was ten to twelve. The pub was filling. She took a small table at the rear.

“Hey! What can we get you today?” Mary Anne bounced into the seat across from her.

“Special smells good.”

“Steak sandwich or fish and chips?”

“Fish, tossed salad, no chips, and water, please.”

Mary Anne motioned to one of her waitresses and gave her the
order.

“You look off today. Not sleeping?”

“I'm doing okay… at least I was doing okay until I had a visitor… Patty Pacquet.”

“Patty Pacquet, the Queen of Tarts. Now I get it. She paid me a visit, too. Wanted to jack up the rent. She doesn't have two clues about business. We have a long-term lease. Rents are negotiated
every five years. We just started year two. I told her to take a three-year hike. By then she'll have dumped all of her properties for cash, anyway. What'd she want with you?”

“She wants the office closed by the end of the month. New tenants are moving in.”

“Can you do it by then?”

“Probably.”

“Do you want to do it by then?”

“No. I'd rather take my time.”

“Rent's paid up?”

“Yes.”

“Then don't. She has to give a month's notice of eviction. And that's a month's notice after the end of the paid month.”

“You know, if she weren't so damned rude… vindictive about it, I'd get out by the thirtieth. Maybe I'll just let her stew for a while. Whatever happened to that contractor she ran off with?”

“He's history… didn't measure up. He had a ten-foot social ladder.
She wanted a sixteen. He's polishing his wrenches on some back porch in Stratford now. Best gossip on the Island passes through
here, hon'. See ya.”

Mary Anne patted Anne's shoulder and bolted toward the cash register.

Anne had a lot to think about after she returned to the office. She didn't want a fight with Patty Pacquet, especially such a petty one, but she didn't like being pushed around, and she didn't like Patty's motivation. It wasn't about money. It was about getting even. Billy had uncovered her plot to steal as much of her husband's cash as she could and then trade up to a shinier model. That made it about Billy. Maybe a good fight would be a healthy distraction, thought Anne.

Daydreaming about Patty's comeuppance energized Anne, and she dug into the stack of Billy's personal papers with vigour. She found his will and read through it. She was principal beneficiary of all properties and assets, personal and business-related. That
was thoughtful of him, she thought, but she knew that there was no hidden treasure in Bill Darby's life. He had a three-year-old Ford, a
rented apartment, a checking account with $2,400 in it (according
to his last statement), and a $50,000 insurance policy which had
lapsed at the end of May. He also had $20,000 in a savings account. That would be set aside in trust for Jacqueline's education. He had
his police pension, but the pension extended only to immediate
family. That wouldn't include her.

He also had the business, though. Right now that amounted to
a safe full of firearms, a couple of desks, a couch, four chairs, and two filing cabinets. As far as company cash, Anne knew that what
came in went out just as quickly. Not that he couldn't have made money at it. But Billy had been generous with pro bono work. If
he'd crossed paths with someone with a compelling problem and
little money, Billy would take it on and carry the expenses himself.
Those clients would never know what a costly investigation had been undertaken for them. Then again, Billy hadn't really needed
the money. He'd just loved the work.

Anne picked up the phone and called Dick Clements, Billy's lawyer. It rang three or four times. Impatiently, she twirled the chair around until it faced the wall. She propped her feet onto a cabinet, and tilted
back until she slipped into a comfortable recline. The phone rang a
few more times. Finally she got his voice mail.

“Dick. Anne Brown. I found a copy of the will in his office. If you
could you arrange for probate, I'll send it over. I'm going to include another couple of documents, too. I'd just like your take on them, if you wouldn't mind. No hurry. Talk to you later. Bye.”

Anne rocked back, dropped her feet to the floor, and spun back to the desk.

In front of her stood a well-dressed woman of about fifty-five.
She wore a navy blue pants suit and a white blouse buttoned to the neck. A gold cross dangled from a matching chain. She had a square
face and pleasant features. She was lightly made-up, and her smile
fluttered nervously.

“Good afternoon, may I help you?” asked Anne. The woman looked as if she had inadvertently walked into an adult book store.

“Yes,” she said slowly and carefully. “I'd like to see Mr. Darby about a matter.”

“I'm sorry, but Mr. Darby is…” The word “dead” caught in her throat. A momentary wave of emotion rose and subsided. “… is
unavailable. Is there some way I can help you? I'm Anne Brown, Mr. Darby's assistant. Is it a personal matter regarding Mr. Darby?”

“No… no… it's professional… a business matter,” she said and
looked behind her at the open door.

“Perhaps you'd like to have a seat in Mr. Darby's office. It's more
comfortable. We can talk in there.”

The woman nodded and smiled a thank you. Anne showed her into the office and led her to the leather couch.

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

A few minutes later Anne brought in a tray carrying two coffees
and a small plate of cookies and set it on a table. She sat down in a
chair next to the woman and waited.

“My name is Mrs. Frances Murphy,” she began. “I'm a widow ten years now. I have no children and, when a person has no children,
they find something else to mother.” She smiled again, this time
more relaxed but with a touch of sadness. She continued.

“For me that took the form of philanthropy. My husband left me
quite well off, and giving away money requires no great skill, of
course, but I've always been quite particular about knowing where it's going and how it's being used. In addition to making charitable use of my own money, I also chair several foundations which fund-
raise and disperse money to worthwhile causes. Some are local…
food banks and such. Some are abroad – the horn of Africa, Central America – I visit some of these places when I can. To see what great
things a little generosity can achieve is… some might say heart-
warming or inspirational… but those words… perhaps no words can capture that wonderful emotion. It's completely overwhelming. On
the other hand, knowing what desperation and hopelessness still
remains is truly heartbreaking.”

Anne nodded. She had no need to prod her. Once primed, the
woman grew in passion and in eloquence. In ten more minutes Mrs. Murphy had conjured images of starved African villagers stacked in mass graves; bands of orphans trudging through barren grassland;
watering holes poisoned by Canadian mine tailings; and Asian
brothels filled with daughters sold into slavery to pay down their parents' debts.

“There seems to be no end of desperate places in a world of plenty,
does there?” Mrs. Murphy stopped. Her eyes glowed. She took a
deep breath.

“So, you're looking for a charitable contribution then.”

“Oh, dear me, no!” she said. “I want you… Mr. Darby, I mean… to investigate someone… someone I'm very fond of.”

5

“What's on sale today?” Anne asked. The door behind her slammed
shut. Anne strode through the small showroom, past the cash register
and two rows of display cases. Under one glass were cameras the
size of a button, large-format bodies for night surveillance, several
antique Russian models for microfilm, and one for mounting on a
plane. A second case displayed an array of listening devices, analog or digital, satellite, line of sight, or directional – everything needed to track your kid, monitor your car, or hunt down a cheating spouse.

“Back here,” hollered Dit. Anne poked her head through the door
way to a second room. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright. Tiny
beads of sweat glimmered on her forehead.

“Hey! There you are. What's on sale today?” She asked cheerily.

Dit looked up from a workbench in his shop and furrowed his brow. “What's the matter with you? You got a fever?”

“Nope. Jogged over here. Picked up Jacqui at school. Dropped her at a friend's. And here I am.”

“Well,” he said, “if you've a mind to buy something, what about
this radio?” He pointed to a 1950s RCA tabletop model. It had a dark
wood cabinet, and she could see a glow of vacuum tubes with the
back panel removed.

“It's lovely,” she said. “What does it
do?
”

“It's AM/FM. No batteries, of course. Manual tuning. Three shortwave bands.”

“I mean, what does it do?”

“Nothing. It's a radio.”

“What? No hidden cameras, or taping devices. Anything…?”

Dit just stared at her and grinned. “Nope. Just a radio.”

“So why are you working on it?”

“I love these old things,” he said. “They're works of art.”

“And you, my friend, are a piece of work. That's why I luv ya.” Anne bent down and gave him a hug around the neck.

“I need some advice.” She had suddenly turned serious.

Dit freed the brake on the wheelchair and swung around to face her.

“Shoot!”

“I'm half-thinking about taking over the agency and carrying on. What do you think?”

“I think you're half-right about it.”

“Please don't joke. I'm serious about this.”

“I'm not joking, Anne. If you're not
completely
sure that this is
what you want to do, then don't. Running a business, any business,
is tough work. It means sacrifices… less quality time with Jacqui…
no personal life. And running Billy's business means standing toe-to-toe with greedy, nasty, and, sometimes, downright dangerous
characters. I'll bet Billy never told you about any of
those
cases. So don't rush into anything.”

“You don't think I can do it?”

“My opinion means nothing. You're one of the cleverest women
I know, Anne, but if you can't answer the question yourself, then
you've got no business in
that
business.”

“Thanks, Dit. You're a peach.” She kissed the top of his head. Then
she messed his hair and bounded out of the shop. “Goin' to Mary
Anne's later,” she shouted. Dit nodded.

Anne jogged back to her apartment and soaked in a long hot shower before she started supper. Hamburgers sizzled on the frying pan and buns heated in the oven. Jacqui chopped lettuce and tomatoes and onions and broccoli for the salad. Anne set the table, and then she told Jacqui about Mrs. Murphy's visit.

“I didn't have the heart to tell her that there was no detective
agency any more. I just let her talk. I think she felt better at the end.”

“You told her no?”

“Not exactly. I explained that our consultation gave us the info to
evaluate her problem. We'd discuss it and then get back to her about whether or not we'd take her case.”

“Couldn't you help her?”

“You wouldn't want me to get involved in detailed investigations, would you?”

“Why not? You helped Uncle Billy with that stuff, didn't you?”

“Sure. But if I did, it would mean too many changes around here. I couldn't always make supper on time… I might have to work late…
less help with homework. You'd have to shoulder more responsibilities.”

“That wouldn't be… too bad.”

“Sometimes I might have to ask someone to look in on you or even stay overnight. I know you're almost fifteen, and I know that you're
responsible, and I do trust you, but I'm sure that all that would be
the last thing you'd want at your age.”

“Does it mean that we could stay here and not have to change schools?”

“I think she's nuts… Nuts,” Ben Solomon said. Sarah shrugged. They were sharing a beer at their usual table at The Blue Peter. Dit said nothing.

“I mean… look at her, for God's sake. What is she… 5'3”… 120 or
something. What kind of intimidation is that?”

“Well,” said Sarah, “she's pretty bright, and she's worked investigations with Billy for a few years now. She must know a thing or two.”

“In theory, maybe. Outside of doing background checks or posing
as a shopper on some in-store theft case.”

“She's stronger-willed than you think, Sam. I think she'll do all
right.”

“I can't understand how she can actually run the agency without a PI's license, though,” said Dit.

“Yeah, she can,” Ben said reluctantly. “Billy has to get a private
investigator's license for anyone who works in his office… anyone, that is, who conducts background checks or makes private inquiries. She has one, for sure. I know that.”

“Then again, this is Prince Edward Island. How much trouble can
she get into?”

“There are enough dickheads around here to jam her up. All I
know is that I wouldn't want my daughter playin' cop.” Ben looked around impatiently. “Where is she, anyway?