AHMM, July-August 2009 Read online

  "One day. That's all."

  "And why did he hire you?"

  "He wanted me to locate Harmon Drake's address for him."

  "And did you?"

  "No,” I said. “I ... thought he was a bit obsessive, like a fan who wanted to see his favorite movie star or something. And I also learned that Terry thought Harmon owed him money over a script that he had sold the kid. So I told him I wasn't comfortable trying to do this job for him, and left it at that."

  "A script?” the chief asked. “What kind of script?"

  "Harmon wrote some teleplays back in the seventies for that science fiction show, Solar Voyage. I guess he sold an original script for that show to Terry, and Terry wanted a refund."

  "Mmm,” the chief said. “Any idea where he was staying?"

  "Purmort Motel, out on Route 4. Look, what's going to happen here?"

  The chief stopped writing on his pad and looked up at me. “You tell me, Karen."

  "What?"

  "Oh, I'm here and the State Police Major Crimes Unit is here, along with an assistant attorney general, but what do we have? We have an out-of-state kid, a crank, someone who's been harassing a somewhat famous but reclusive resident of the town. Said kid trespasses on the property, approaches homeowner with a knife, and said homeowner—in fear for his life—shoots him. In New York or Massachusetts or some parts of California, that means the guy gets charged with shooting. But here, in this county? Guy was defending his life, defending his castle."

  "A whitewash, then."

  If possible, the chief's face got even redder. “No, Karen. No whitewash. And me and about a half dozen of your overpaid public servants are going to be camped out here overnight, processing evidence, seeing where it takes us, but I can tell you right now where it's going to take us. Self defense."

  "But chief..."

  "Yeah?"

  For some reason my arms were cold. “Terry ... he couldn't hurt anyone. Honest. He was just a kid who loved science fiction and, for some reason, had to see Harmon Drake about that script. He didn't seem violent to me. Not at all."

  The chief flipped his notepad closed and stuck it in a back pocket. “First time I met you, before I started working here, you mentioned something about keeping the drawer of your desk open first time a male visitor comes into your office. Want me to remind you of the story you told me, about why you did that?"

  "No,” I said sourly.

  "Well, I'm going to do it anyway. Happened soon after you opened up and some sweet old guy with a cane and wearing a snappy bowtie came in and chatted with you, until he asked for a massage. You said no, and he got up and hit you on the side of your head with his cane. Karen, before he hit you, did you think he was the kind of man who could do that to a woman he had just met?"

  Again I said, “No."

  The chief turned to head back up to the house. “People do strange things, and you and me, Karen, we often see the strangest. Thanks for the info. Call me if you have anything else, okay?"

  So the chief walked away and I went back to my truck, and I guess I should have done my civic duty, for at home I had Terry's manbag. But was that anything else, or just merely a possession of Terry's that I could turn in at a later date?

  I decided to think about that all the way home.

  * * * *

  The next day, fortified after a night of reading, six hours of reasonable sleep, and a breakfast of an English muffin and two cups of coffee, I returned to the scene of the crime on Townsend Avenue. The road was empty and it was hard to believe what had been going on here just over twelve hours earlier. There were marks in the grass and dirt on the side of the road, showing where the police cruisers and ambulances had been parked, and there was a piece of yellow crime scene tape, flapping in the breeze where it had been caught on a fence post.

  I got out of my truck, walked up to the gate, and tried to announce myself using the intercom system.

  "Mr. Drake? Karen Dunbar. I'm the same private investigator here in town from the other day. I'd like to talk to you."

  Like before, just the hiss of static.

  "Mr. Drake, the young man you shot last night, Terry Crandall. He was a client of mine. I'd like to talk to you about what happened."

  More static.

  "Mr. Drake, I think you'll want to talk to me too."

  No reply.

  I lifted my thumb from the intercom switch, looked up at the gate. Easy enough to climb over, and I suspected that's what Terry did last night.

  Sure, a voice inside of me said, and look what happened to him.

  I stepped back and eyed the fence and the sloping driveway. I grabbed part of the fence and hoisted myself over, then got back on the other side with minimal difficulty, though I did take a deep breath when I landed on the ground, luckily on both feet.

  The things I do for clients.

  The little voice returned. Moron, it said, don't you remember? You gave him back his twenty bucks.

  I didn't care. The kid was still my client.

  The front door opened up just a crack and a man called out, “That's far enough! Any farther and I'll call the police!"

  I kept walking. “Sure. Go ahead. I know the chief pretty well, and I'm sure he's going to be interested in what I have to say about you and Terry and that TV show you wrote for."

  The door opened just a smidge more. “Look, I don't care what you have to say, you just get the hell off my property. Or else!"

  That did it. “Or else what? Or else you'll shoot me too? Just like you shot that poor kid last night?"

  "He was threatening me!"

  Now that I was just a few feet away from the door, I could see his face. It was flush with anger and his hair was a bit mussed, though his goatee was nice and white and trimmed. “Maybe he was,” I said, “but did he have to die for it?"

  "I had no choice!"

  At his doorstep I stopped. His eyes were red rimmed, and I was glad that it looked like he hadn't slept much last night. “Sure you did. You could have called the cops. Closed the door. But you saw an opportunity. He was here, trespassing. One shot. That's all it would take. One shot and your problem would be over. Put a cheap, untraceable, foldover knife in his hand ... not a bad job."

  "I don't know what you're talking about!"

  "Sure you do,” I said. “Oh, I agree. Terry was threatening you. But he wasn't threatening to hurt you. He was threatening to expose your little scam, the little scam that he investigated, the little scam that he uncovered."

  Harmon Drake didn't say anything. He just stood there, breathing hard, like a guppy that's been tossed from his safe bowl of water and has landed on the kitchen floor. I went on. “He was a good kid, that Terry. Knew you and admired you. He even self published a novel based on your most famous TV episode. And from his notes ... the two of you had a correspondence going on for a number of months. In a way, you seduced him. You told him that he was a special fan, one that really got his tales, not like anyone else. And for a special fan, you had a special deal. An original copy of that prize-winning story you wrote for Solar Voyage. Not the script that was shot and broadcast. No, the first version, the darker, edgier version. Putting these well-known Solar Voyage characters in situations and scenes that were shocking. Never seen before, never published before. But for this special fan, you could be convinced to turn it over for a thousand dollars. Does that sound familiar, Harmon? Does it?"

  His voice was almost a whisper. “It does."

  "So young Terry ... what a jewel, what a priceless artifact he has. This unaired script ... He probably thought he had a bargain when he bought it for a thousand dollars. And part of the deal, Harmon, was that the buyer had to keep his mouth shut. Had to promise never to reveal what had gone on, but Terry couldn't keep his mouth shut. He e-mailed a Solar Voyage fan in Spokane to tell him of his purchase. And this Spokane fan, a bit pissed, wrote back, saying, no, he had purchased this original script. By the time Terry came to see you last night, he'd found about a dozen f
ans, scattered around the country, who had purchased this valuable, one-of-a-kind, never-to-be-revealed script. You scammed them, Harmon. You scammed them all, didn't you?"

  Not a word, but then the door opened up and he stepped out, running both of his hands through his hair.

  "You don't know what you're talking about."

  "I certainly do,” I said. “They were scammed. All of them. Guys and a few gals, with stars in their eyes, thought they were getting something special from their favorite author."

  "They did get something special!” he said. “They did! And it was a script that got rejected, one that was different than what aired."

  "But they all thought they were getting something unique,” I said. “And they didn't."

  He came down the steps, and I checked his hands to make sure he was unarmed. He was, as far as I could see. “If he had kept his mouth shut, they would have gotten something one-of-a-kind. They would have. Look, Miss ... ah—"

  "Dunbar."

  "Dunbar,” he repeated. “Look, I'm a writer. I spin tales. I create dreams. And what I was selling to those fans was just that. A dream that they could have in their hands, an artifact from their favorite television show. They got a piece of that dream, I got some money, and everyone was happy."

  "Money,” I said. “So that's all it was about, huh?"

  His eyes flashed at me. “Yes. Money. What else? That script, that ‘High House Horror’ script, you know how much I got paid for that? Four thousand dollars. Wow. Four thousand friggin’ dollars, and that one episode has been rerun over and over again for more than thirty years. Every few months I get a residual check for those rebroadcasts—ten bucks here, four bucks there, while the actors and the producers make thousands and thousands. I've written scores of novels, and all of them are out of print. So I did what I had to do to survive."

  "Including shooting a fan?"

  "He was threatening me!"

  I shook my head. “No, he was threatening your little con. That's all he did, and you know it. Who knows where that knife came from, but I'm sure it didn't come from Terry."

  He folded his arms across his pudgy chest. “You can't prove it."

  "No, but I can report what I found in Terry's possessions. The copies of the e-mails, the letters, the notes outlining how you swindled him and so many others."

  Harmon allowed himself a faint smile. “Like I said, I'm a storyteller, Miss Dunbar. And the story here is a homeowner defended himself. The cops won't care about the scripts I sold. Not one bit."

  I returned the smile. “Who said anything about going to the cops? No, I'm going to spread news about your shady deal to the science fiction fans, the fans of that television show. We'll see how you do after that."

  I started going back down the driveway and he called out, “Wait!"

  I looked over my shoulder. “Thinking about going back in your house and getting your gun, shooting me? I don't think so. Two shootings in two days won't look good, Harmon."

  "No, no,” he said, taking a few steps toward me. “It's not that, I mean, please. Don't do it. Think about it. Think of who I am, one of the few writers still around who wrote for Solar Voyage. Doesn't that mean anything? Didn't you see the show?"

  I thought for a moment. “Yeah, I saw the show."

  Now he looked hopeful. “Well?"

  I turned away. “Sorry. I'm more of a mystery fan."

  Copyright © 2009 Brendan DuBois

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  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: SHANKS ON MISDIRECTION by Robert Lopresti

  * * * *

  Kelly Denato

  * * * *

  "Just look at him,” muttered Leopold Longshanks. “I can't believe he had the gall to show up."

  "I'm sure he was invited,” his wife said, reasonably. Being reasonable was one of Cora's most annoying habits.

  "Well, he shouldn't have been,” said Shanks, as he watched the man skulk—all right, he was walking in a perfectly reasonable manner, but he should have been skulking—out of sight at the far end of the room. “If there was any justice in the world, Ken Roaf would be a pariah. Every cocktail party in the world would bar him from the door. Especially parties given by writers."

  "Shanks, it was just a bad review. Get over it.” Cora was looking around the living room of Ed and Jean Godwen's huge condo, crammed with partygoers.

  "It wasn't just a bad review,” said Shanks. “I've had plenty of bad reviews. Well, not as many as good ones, of course. But enough to build up a sort of immunity."

  "Drinks,” said Cora. “There's the bar.” She steered toward it and he followed.

  The problem wasn't that Ken Roaf had disliked Shanks's new novel. Nor was it that Roaf the oaf, allegedly a friend, had eviscerated the book in a major magazine, while accusing Shanks of having borrowed too heavily from three long-dead authors.

  No. What really stung was that Roaf had gone on to dismiss those three authors—all favorites of Shanks's—as overrated hacks, while declaring that each of them was, nevertheless, far better than Leopold Longshanks. That was the straw that sent the camel to spinal surgery.

  After the review appeared Shanks had been unable to write for three days. Instead he glared at the computer screen and muttered: “Derivative, am I? Uninspired?” until Cora would take him shopping as a punishment.

  The bartender informed them that their choices were white wine or red. Shanks couldn't believe it. He had been counting on several Scotches to help him survive an evening under the same roof as Ken Roaf. Instead he was being offered Chardonnay and Merlot.

  "You don't have anything stronger?"

  The barman looked back, poker faced. “You mean a fortified wine, like the bums drink? I'm afraid not, sir."

  Everyone's a comedian, Shanks thought. Roaf should review him.

  He looked around the room, Merlot in hand, and wondered if there was anyone here who hadn't seen the review, or at least heard about it. The thing was, no matter how awful the critique is, most people seem to stay calm about it—as long as they aren't the one under the knife. No one seemed ready to ban Roaf from the industry, or even from the party list.

  "Stop looking for him,” said Cora.

  "I wasn't. I don't want to see him."

  "Shanks, listen to me.” She placed herself squarely in front of him. “I won't have you creating a scene. These are our friends."

  All except one, he thought.

  "Don't start anything with him."

  "I'll try to avoid him, my love."

  "That's not good enough.” She put a hand on his arm and fixed him with her most wifely stare. “Promise me you won't say anything harsh to Ken tonight."

  "Harsh? Me?"

  "Promise."

  "If Ken behaves himself—"

  "Shanks, you are not going to embarrass me. If you won't promise right now, I'll take the car and you can find your own way home."

  "Now who's being unreasonable?” He sighed. “All right. I promise. No harsh language."

  Cora nodded. “Thank you. You'll feel better for it, too. Believe me."

  He didn't.

  "Oh, there's Jean. I need to say hello. Remember, Shanks—"

  "I know, I know.” He watched her go and shook his head. It was going to be a long night.

  "Shanks! Get over here,” called his host. Ed Godwen was the author of bestselling techno-thrillers, a man whose very grocery lists were optioned by Hollywood. He was standing with a couple he introduced as Tom and Maggie Birdeen.

  "You write cozies,” said Shanks to Maggie, who was fortyish, and whose red hair needed a dye touch-up. “I've heard good things about them."

  She gave him a ver
y thin smile. “I prefer to say I write traditional, fair-play mysteries."

  Well, bully for you, Shanks thought. Apparently this was the sort of night when even polite small talk would get him in trouble. “I've written some of those too,” he said.

  "Ah,” said Maggie Birdeen, plucked eyebrows rising. “Under your own name?” Translation: I've never heard of you.

  Giving her up as a lost cause, Shanks turned to her husband. “And what do you do, Tom?"

  Tom—tall, wiry, with a thin and hungry look, gave him good eye contact and a sincere smile. “I sell insurance, Shanks. It's a pleasure to meet you."

  Well, that about completed the set. Shanks discovered, with astonishment, that his wineglass was empty. Maybe he could get over to the bar—

  But Ed was speaking. “How's the new book selling, Shanks?"

  Not as well as before Ken Roaf's little mash note, but Shanks had promised not to be harsh. “Not in the same league as yours, I'm sure, but I manage to put a crust on the table."

  "What is your latest book?” asked Tom, or as Shanks was thinking of him, Mr. Deductible.

  Shanks told him the title and Tom frowned. “I read something about that one.” He gave him an appraising look.

  Shanks sighed.

  "I'm afraid I don't have much time to read the bloody potboilers,” said Maggie, with a sweet smile. “Just too busy. Busy! We were rushing around so much we almost didn't make it at all tonight."

  "Here we go,” muttered Tom, who had apparently already tired of this story.

  "You see,” Maggie told Ed, “we needed money for the sitter and Tom here lost his debit card."

  "I didn't lose it,” said her husband. “The damned ATM ate it."

  "Ah.” Shanks felt unexpected sympathy for the insurance man. All men are brothers before the cruelty of machines. “Did you have trouble with the PIN? If you miss a few times in a row the machine takes the card."

  Tom shook his head. “I always type it in right the first time. This machine had just decided to eat everybody's card, as the people in front of me had discovered. They just didn't bother to tell me until it was too late."

  "Jeez, that was a big help,” said Ed.

  "Tell us about it,” said Shanks.