The de Vere Deception (David Thorne Mysteries Book 1) (4 page)

            He looked again at the downloaded information about Edward de Vere, the 17
^th
Earl of Oxford, and found other authors—as well as de Vere—touted by famous people as the actual author of Shakespeare’s work. The controversy had been worked to death and he determined he would leave that aspect of the job to his clients—or potential clients. His interest would be to find what they wanted, collect his fee, and move on to another job.

            Thorne had made inquiries the previous day about his potential clients at Phoenix and Scottsdale banks, real estate companies, and local police records. Raskin and Kirk Halstrom appeared to be successful real estate investors without records.

            Information on the internet showed Raskin, Kirk-Halstrom, and Gilbert Bada to be graduates of Oxford. Bada and Raskin’s theses had been developed on de Vere as the true author of Shakespeare’s works. The theses were subsequently published by a London publishing house and brought both men modest fame in England’s literary circles.

            Unlike Bada and Raskin, Kirk-Halstrom had not distinguished himself as an outstanding student or among the English literati, but was considered an authority on the genealogy of British nobility. He had been active in the Heraldry Society and the Genealogy Club while at Oxford. In describing him, classmates noted his claim—almost an obsession—to be highborn, a peer, and a direct descendent from de Vere on his father’s side.

            He appeared considerably wealthier than Raskin, and had inherited the title, the 3
^rd
Earl of Maylinton. In addition to his supposed connection with the linage of de Vere, he had many other prominent figures, both British and Swedish and Danish nobility, in his linage.

            Gilbert Bada was now President and CEO of Bada, Ltd., a corporation headquartered in Birmingham, England. The company was originally noted for importing copra, textiles, vegetable oils, dyes and foodstuffs. In recent years, they had become a multi-national conglomerate when they moved into pharmaceuticals, electronics, and construction and building products.

            Frederick Hollister was the owner of The Classics Bookstore in Stratford-upon-Avon. His name had appeared along with Bada in recent articles relating to the Shakespeare authorship controversy, but there was no record of his attending a college or university.

            The background of Simon Blackstone, the last member of the group, was less transparent. He had been a general contractor in South Africa before moving into gold futures and diamonds. He appeared to have become wealthy furnishing industrial diamonds to Bada Corporation, Ltd. in England.

            Thorne turned away from the information on the table before him. He couldn’t shake the encounter with the foul-breathed man. He might be in danger—real danger—that might be more than just being beat up.

            He returned the papers to the folder and realized he needed to get work—and cash—and soon. In spite of the potential danger with the job in England, he knew he had no other choice. He would have to take it.

Chapter 6

PARADISE VALLEY

Tuesday, November 16

4:30 PM

It was late afternoon when Thorne drove to Scottsdale and checked his mailbox. The contents were mostly junk mail. One was a letter from the finance company threatening to re-possess his pickup truck. Another was from the Navajo Tribal office notifying him they would not be using his services, but would be using a tribal member for future investigations. He had sent an email to a masonry sub-contractor asking about a start time on an upcoming warehouse project. The letter said the sub-contractor had lost the bid, and would not be doing the job. The utility company sent a thirty-day notice his utilities would be cut off if he didn’t pay by a certain date. The last was a short note from Tom Willis, the acquaintance he had worked with in the past. Willis’s note confirmed the contact from Raskin’s group about the job and his subsequent referral of Thorne.

It was after six-thirty when Thorne finished an early dinner at a small restaurant off Scottsdale Road. He glanced again at the information he had pulled off the internet before turning onto Paradise Valley’s Lincoln Boulevard.

            The Town of Paradise Valley is a small, wealthy enclave wedged between Phoenix and Scottsdale. The snowbirds from the north visit the area in the winter months, and mix with other affluent retirees who enjoy the low-key nature of the town. The town ordinance dictates no lots can be less than one acre in size, but there are many exceeding that.

            The Raskin property was one of these large twenty-acre desert properties with multiple houses set well back beyond the trees and greasewood. A high Adobe wall with wrought-iron-filled openings surrounded the entire compound and an imposing carved wood gate guarded the entrance. Thorne stopped at the intercom and pressed a button. A polite voice inquired, “May I help you?”

            “Yes, David Thorne to see Mr. Raskin.”

            The voice paused shortly before answering. “Thank you, Sir. He’s expecting you.” At that, the massive gate slowly swung open.

            The most prominent structure in the compound was a large two-story white stucco mansion with a red Spanish tile roof. It sprawled in the center of the property, surrounded by tall Saguaro cactuses and Ironwood and Mesquite trees. Three other mauve and cream-colored, Pueblo-style houses, were set at the extreme corners of the property, well away from the main house, and were surrounded by a jumble of prickly pear, cholla, and stag horn cactus. A jack rabbit hiding behind a creosote bush, loped away into the desert as Thorne drove up the long driveway

            Thorne parked his pickup truck in the circular driveway behind a Bentley sedan and an Aston-Martin sports car, and strolled up a long curving walk to the large antique wood front door. He rang the doorbell and listened to the trickle of water from a carved stone fountain as he waited. Half a dozen small lizards sunned themselves on the low courtyard wall, and a hummingbird flitted about a feeder hung from a wooden trellis.

            The door opened and a cheerful man in a crisp white Bolero jacket, bright white shirt, black four-in-hand tie, and perfectly creased black trousers greeted Thorne. In a cheerful British accent he said, “Good day, Sir.” He stepped aside and escorted Thorne down a long Mexican-tiled foyer to a living room with whitewashed stucco walls.

            Thorne was surprised at the demeanor of the butler. He’d always pictured the typical English butler as being staid, stiff upper lip-types. He seated himself on a velvet maroon sofa stacked with colorful pillows, and mused on the British obsession with creased trousers as the butler disappeared behind a Cheshire Cat smile.

            Raskin appeared, tastefully dressed in casual slacks and a pink cashmere sweater over a dark blue golf shirt. He held out his hand and said, “Thank you for coming, Mr. Thorne.” He had used the same pleasant, automatic voice in their first meeting at the hotel.

            “Please come into the den and meet the rest of the group. They are all anxious to meet you.”

The den of the mansion was much larger than the living room. Two large butter-soft brown leather sofas and four heavy wood chairs, surrounded a circular carved wood coffee table. The chairs were covered in a southwestern desert motif fabric, and were set on a large Navajo rug fronted on an enormous native stone fireplace.

            Kirk-Halstrom, casually dressed in a pastel-colored golf shirt and sweater, stood to one side of a large table. He was frowning and nervously straightening a pile of magazines.  Blackstone sat on the raised fireplace hearth. Neither man made a move to greet Thorne.

            Raskin introduced two younger men. “This is Mr. Gilbert Bada and Mr. Frederick Hollister. You know Mr. Kirk-Halstrom and Mr. Blackstone.” Kirk-Halstrom produced a nervous smile and returned to the pile of magazines. Blackstone glanced briefly in his direction before returning his attention to a cell phone.

            Hollister was a slender fair-haired young man in his early thirties. “My friends call me Freddie,” he said with enthusiasm, and extended his small hand. “I’m so very pleased to meet you.”

            Bada nodded to Thorne and sat back down without speaking or shaking hands.

            Raskin sat on the arm of one of the sofas and inclined his head toward Bada. “Mr. Bada is CEO and Chairman of Bada, Limited, and the primary sponsor of our group. He will describe to you our plans and intentions.”

            Bada was not what Thorne would have pictured in a leader of a large multi-national company. Thorne expected the Chief Executive Officer and Chairman of the Board of a giant conglomerate like Bada, Limited to be a man of powerful presence and charisma, a man of physical substance.

            Instead, he saw a pleasant young man with large doe-like—almost feminine—eyes and neatly combed dark hair above a soft rounded face. There was nothing out of the ordinary in his appearance, but on closer inspection, he did project a presence not seen in the other men in the room. It was an air of confidence, that of one of the well-born and privileged class whose pronouncements would be accepted without question.

            Perhaps there was more substance to Gilbert Bada than a first impression would indicate.

Chapter 7

Bada studied the man seated across from him. From his time spent attending college in America he had become familiar with the American character. Based on the popular conception of private detectives shown in the movies and television in England—and America—Thorne met expectations. Casual dress, relaxed attitude, reserved and not overly enthusiastic—and apparently unimpressed with the wealthy men and their opulent surroundings. He appeared to have that ‘Humphrey Bogart’ attitude Bada had seen in old black and white movies. Thorne was taller than average, trim, dark hair with tinges of gray at the temple, strong, weather-beaten features, and a demeanor Bada assumed most women would find appealing.

            Bada exchanged glances with the others before returning to Thorne. “Sir, your reference says you are not only competent, but discrete and can be trusted to keep information confidential. That’s very important to us.”

            He hesitated before continuing. “We are at liberty to reveal the person’s name that furnished the reference. Mr. Tom Willis is the person who suggested you. Mr. Willis came highly recommended to us by business associates—people in whom we have a lot of confidence. We had hoped to hire Mr. Willis, but unfortunately, he’s unavailable.

            Bada droned on for the next half hour, providing general information about England, the history of the Tudors, and Stratford-upon-Avon. Thorne listened as Bada also repeated how much they were impressed by Thorne’s qualifications.

            Thorne was tiring of the constant buttering-up, and being told how great he was. He supposed it was a British thing. His mind drifted to his last conversation with Willis where they had exchanged phone numbers and e-mail addresses. He glanced at his watch, folded his arms, wondered what Willis was doing now, and waited for Bada to conclude.

            Bada continued with his description of the controversy. “There are many prominent people who believe Edward de Vere was the author of the plays and sonnets ascribed to William Shakespeare. From various sources, you will find the man
named
William Shakespeare—or William Shaksper, the man from Stratford upon Avon—was an actor, a manager, a wool merchant, a businessman, and a host of other professions.”

            Raskin broke in. “The investigative work and studies by us and many prominent scholars—and famous persons—bear out that this—this semi-illiterate who could barely sign his name—could hardly be the same world-renowned author who—”

            Thorne was becoming impatient. “To change the subject, Sir, it appears you gentlemen wish to hire me. If that is the case—to do what?”

            Blackstone broke in and asked bluntly, “What are your rates, Mr. Thorne? We’re providing you with a lot of information. We probably should get first things first, like how much you charge. After all, hiring you could be a considerable outlay on our part. We’re taking a chance on an unknown quantity.”

            Kirk-Halstrom had stopped straightening magazines and was now seated on one of the sofas examining his fingernails. He had lost some of his nervousness. He raised his eyebrows and said calmly. “I want it to be known, I am quite impressed with your qualifications, Mr. Thorne, and I was one of the first to recommend you. However, I agree with Simon. Before we retain you, I think we should be circumspect in our process.”

            Thorne said, “I think it best to get all the information about the job first. In a case like yours, I would like to know what the job is, and it’s duration.

            Blackstone leaned back against the stone fireplace and folded his arms. Kirk-Halstrom smiled briefly, his eyebrows returned to their original position, and he went back to examining his fingernails.

            Bada retook control of the conversation, and Blackstone and Kirk-Halstrom lapsed into silence. “I’m sure we can offer a fee agreeable to you, Mr. Thorne. I think we want to hire you. We’ll pay all your expenses while you’re working for us, and we’ll offer you a lump sum fee of ten-thousand dollars a month, for three months—with a one-month retainer upon execution of the contract—with stipulations.

            Thorne was stunned. He looked down at his hands. He clasped them to keep them from shaking. Ten-thousand a month—and ten thousand up front. A thirty-thousand dollar, three-month contract. This would solve all his immediate problems—and he wouldn’t have to sell his pickup. This was more money than he had made the previous year.

            Regaining his composure, he said, “I think I would be interested.”