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Murder of a Manwhore May 27, 2004--Part II: Deuce’s rented digs turned out to be a few blocks from my office. A series of flats had been carved out of a Victorian mansion on a street filled with similar mansions turned flat blocks. Deuce had rented the back flat overlooking the garden. Walking down the flagstone path, I was surprised at the quietness. “A prudent choice,” Deuce informed me upon
answering my knock. “It’s small, definitely not dank, but
it’s in I smiled. Living in Deuce looked around, “Where’s Antoine?” “On the phone,” I indicated the car with a nod of my head. Antoine was standing at the end of the path, talking to someone and from the looks of it, Antoine wasn’t too happy. Then again, neither Deuce nor myself were too happy about Maven’s murder. “Just don’t stand there, come in,” Deuce told me. I entered the flat and looked around. “At least they put some color in here,” I commented, putting a tone of cheer in my voice. “It’s rather bright.” I smiled at Deuce. Deuce scratched his head. “Tangerine on my living room wall and can you believe I’m sleeping in a room painted dark red?” He smiled. “But the rent is rather good.” “How much?” I wanted to know. Damn! I bit my lip. The lawyer in me always wants to ensure that my friends aren’t getting ripped off. “One hundred sixty five pounds a week.” “Not bad. Own loo?” Deuce nodded. “Plus shower and whatever you guys have that passes for cable here. I have to feed the meter, though. And if I forget to feed it before bed, I go cold.” Deuce pouted. It was my turn to nod. Feeding the meter is common for English rental properties. It simply means you feed the meter to get your electricity. Usually they’re found in holiday properties. “Tea?” I inquired. “Coffee.” “Tea.” “Coffee,” Deuce said, a bit more forcefully. He turned to go towards the kitchen when the doorbell rang. “Antoine! That’s Antoine!” Deuce sang. He did a perfect about face (someone in his family must have been military at one time) and headed for the door. He flung the door open, and screamed. Antoine screamed. Deuce screamed again. I screamed, just for the hell of it. “What are we screaming at?” I asked, puzzled at my friends’ behavior. Deuce and Antoine shrugged. “Dunno,” they both said, trying to hide sheepish looks on their faces. Antoine let himself in, shutting the door behind him with a loud smack. Antoine looked around the living room and his gaze happened upon the bright orange wall. He dug into his pocket and took out a pair of sunshades. “There,” Antoine said, adjusting his sunshades. “Much better. My compliments to the painters.” Deuce smiled. “I was just about to get some coffee.” He made a pointed look in my direction, which I took great pains not to notice. “Tea,” I automatically corrected, wagging a forefinger at Deuce. “Coffee,” Deuce and Antoine said together. “Make mine double, with half and half. And oh, it is hazelnut coffee?” Antoine asked teasingly. He knew my preference for tea. Deuce gave Antoine a sideways glance, then headed towards the kitchen, mumbling something to himself. “Tea,” I called out to Deuce, letting him know that I still existed. “Well,” Antoine said slowly, settling himself down on the most obnoxiously orange couch that I have ever seen in my life. The entire living room was done in shades of orange and cream, reminding me of a frozen treat the Americans refer to as a dreamsicle. “Well what?” “Dunno,” was Antoine’s reply. Deuce ambled back into the living room and sat down opposite Antoine. From the tight expression on his face, it was clear Deuce did not want to discuss Maven’s murder. For that matter, neither did I. “I suppose you found out about my centerfold,” Deuce said quietly. Antoine nodded. “It was…rather interesting.” “That wasn’t my intention. The paparazzi, they’re everywhere,” Deuce complained, waving his hands around. “Tell me about it,” I commented. “There should be a website called “Coalition for the Advancement of Pie Throwing at Pesky Papparazzi.” This comment only caused Deuce to smile a little bit. “Good thing I have a mate who works at a film developing store,” I commented. Antoine raised an eyebrow and indicated that I should continue. “He intercepted some rolls of film that someone took
of us while we were off the coast of Antoine and Deuce visibly winced at that comment. The incident in question stemmed from just after we had collected the reward money.?The three of us had flown to Monte, and right at Customs we had a huge argument about whether to rent a yacht or to rent motel rooms and a yacht. Our argument had attracted quite a crowd of spectators, including several Customs inspectors, who shook their heads and muttered comments about tourists. Eventually, our happy trio had decided to rent a yacht. It’s amazing what three people can do inside of two hours. Within that time span, we had rented a yacht, stocked our boat with edibles and within two hours of our arrival in Monte, the three of us were floating serenely on the Med. But lurking nearby, and unbeknownst to us, floated a second boat containing a member of the illustrated press. For the next several days, we partied aboard the yacht, heading in and out of ports where we partied on shore. Oh, and we were photographed. Imagine my dismay when my mate Chuck Yates phoned me. “Mason, old mate! Heard you’ve been partying in the Med!” “That I have.” I sat in my chair, wondering where this was headed. Was there no peace from gossip? “Also see that you’ve finally had that mole taken care of.” The mole in question is located on a part of my anatomy better left hidden under fabric. I immediately knew what had happened and knowing that Chuck was in the film processing business, I surmised that a roll of film (or twenty seven rolls, as I later discovered) had been left in his care for processing. “How much?” I inquired, knowing Chuck would want something in return for ‘losing’ the film. He could blame the loss on any number of things: broken equipment, overexposure of the film, robbery, incompetent help. “A thousand quid,” he replied. I grimaced. Chuck was the first of the vultures to come root around my reward money. I sighed, then agreed. I had the required sum couriered to him and in return I was sent the twenty seven rolls of film. I was quite unhappy with some of the photos. I am also glad to note that I had thrown the film into the fire. “How bad were the photos?” Deuce wanted to know. “Covered most everything,” I replied. Antoine groaned. “Never mix scotch and yogurt. Ever.” “I hear ya,” Deuce said. Sniffing the air, he commented, “Coffee’s done.” He went off to the kitchen. “I hope that’s tea,” I called after him. “Coffee,” Deuce called back over his shoulder. I looked at Antoine. “We drink tea in “Coffee man myself,” he replied amiably. We sat in silence a while, neither of us wanting to discuss Maven’s murder. Trying to maintain some conversation, I asked, “Did I forget to mention that GMA’s offices were broken into yesterday?” “No. What was taken?” “Someone tried to break into GMA’s brokerage accounts. I think I did all the necessary things to stop a drain on our cash.” “A drain?” “On the accounts. If someone was trying to access our brokerage account number, they could very easily do so from my computer. I had to change the account numbers and all the passwords to prevent that from happening. “ “So someone was trying to defraud us?” I nodded. “Seems like it.” “Seems like what?” Deuce wanted to know. He entered the living room laden with a tray full of cups and saucers and plates and were those cookies I spied? Yes, Deuce had cookies. Setting the tray down on a table, Deuce began to pour and mix while I reached for the cookies. “Seems like someone was trying to embezzle money from GMA’s accounts yesterday,” I informed him, settling back on the couch with a handful of cookies. “What?” Deuce asked. “Someone tried to crack GMA’s brokerage accounts.” “Who?” I shrugged. “Dunno. But there was a tall blonde woman who entered my building yesterday around the same time that I was off to lunch.” “She looking for me?”
Deuce wanted to know. “I am “Only after me, luv,” Antoine reminded Deuce. I smiled. Such friendly rivaly between the two of them! “Do you think she tried to crack the accounts?” Antoine asked me, accepting a cup of coffee from Deuce. I nodded. “I think she did.” “Did you get the security company to run the security tape?” was Antoine’s next question. “Oh, ph***k!” I cried. “Why didn’t I think of that?” In truth, the Inspectors and myself should have thought to ask about the security tapes. Located in a discreet corner of the entryway, the security camera rolls on twenty four/seven. Antoine smiled. “In the last several weeks, cameras have been shoved in my face so often that I tend to notice cameras wherever I go.” “Tell me about it,” Deuce commented, handing me a cup and saucer. With growing horror, I noticed what Deuce had placed on the side of the saucer. I tapped my foot at him in mock anger. “Deuuuce. What is this?” With my head, I indicated the cup and saucer. He assumed an air of innocence as he replied, “A cup and saucer. For tea.” I continued tapping my foot. “Deuce. You know what I mean.” “For tea,” he explained again, not quite able
to hide his amusement. I was glad he was smiling; I knew we would have to
discuss Maven’s murder shortly. “Deuce,” I said again. With the tips of my fingers, I lifted the offensive item up so Deuce would have no doubt as to what I was referring. “What, young man, is this?” He shrugged. “Tea bag,” he mumbled. “A tea bag,” I said slowly. “A Lipton tea bag.” “I, uh, ran out of?loose tea. Will coffee do?” he asked hopefully. “It will have to do,” I pouted. Grudgingly I accepted a cup of coffee. Deuce took his coffee and sat down with a long sigh. “I know the feeling,” Antoine told Deuce. Deuce looked at Antoine with tears in his eyes.
“What are we going to do? “I can double on some of Maven’s courses,” Antoine offered. “I can teach Manwhore Etiquette,” I supplied. Deuce and Antoine looked at me. “You?” Deuce asked. “You’re not a manwhore.” “I’ve had my upbringing,” I reminded my friends. “Minor nobility and me mum and dad insisted on staff. So I know the rules.” “Well,” Deuce began and Antoine nodded. “I suppose we could enlist your help in that area.” “Excellent!” I replied. “In any event, it
would do well to add a few courses to “Such as?” Antoine asked, trying not to spill his coffee on the new suit he’d had tailored to order. “Tea making,” I supplied, casting a glance at Deuce. He smiled wanly, not picking up on the joke I was trying to make. The three of us sipped our coffee in silence. None of us wanted to discuss Maven’s murder and I knew that the reassigning of Maven’s courses was only a prelude. We needed to plan a memorial service, plan his funeral (Maven was alone in the world, poor chap) and someone needed to go to court and oversee Maven’s estate. “That would be me,” I said aloud. I reached over and poured sugar into the coffee. “Huh?” Deuce and Antoine asked, confused. “His estate,” I replied. “What about it?” Deuce asked, reaching over and taking a lemon cookie. “Someone needs to get appointed as the executor of Maven’s estate,” I replied. “And that would be me.” “A most excellent choice,” Antoine said distractedly. He sipped his coffee and lapsed into silence. “I’ll even take over planning the funeral,” I volunteered. “Thanks,” Deuce said softly. “I didn’t know him for very long, but he made such an impression on me. We were like soul buds.” Before I could stop myself, I asked, “Would you like to do a eulogy, Deuce?” I bit my lip, then thought better of it. Perhaps forcing Deuce to sit down and write about Maven would help him get over the shock of Maven’s murder. Deuce thought this question over for a few moments, then nodded. “Maven was murdered not five minutes after I’d last seen him at the pub,” Deuce told me. This information was news to me. I nodded for Deuce to continue. “I, too, might have been murdered had I not turned down Maven’s offer of a ride home,” Deuce finished, indicating his orange and cream living room. Maven, as the papers said, had been murdered as he got out his car four blocks from the pub. He’d stopped off for gas, and had Deuce accepted the ride home, he might have been murdered. Antoine looked shocked at Deuce’s comment and I had to admit my expression bore Antoine’s shocked look. After some moments to recollect ourselves (and to be grateful that Deuce wasn’t lying on a coroner’s slab), Antoine asked, “Uh, Mason? Shouldn’t Deuce talk to the inspectors?” This was an excellent idea. Antoine was becoming quite an astute assistant. “Yes,” I said. “I’ll ring round to the Inspector in charge of the investigation and set up an appointment. He’ll want to knock you up, Deuce.” Deuce choked a bit on a cookie. When he’d recovered himself, he protested, “Knock me up? I’m male!” I smiled wanly. “A bit of fun with the language, mate,” I told him with false cheer. “Means to come and knock on your door.” “I get it,” Deuce said. “Are there any other translations I should be aware of? You know, so I don’t mess things up in my eulogy?” “I’ll read it over,” I offered. Later that afternoon, I was on the phone and on endless hold with the funeral home when another line buzzed. With some zeal, I placed the funeral hold on home and picked up the second line. “GMA, McDaniels here, “ I said briskly. “Inspector Clements, here,” came the snappy reply. I smiled. “Inspector! What a happy surprise.” Now which Inspector goes with which case?
I wondered to myself. Earlier I had rung to the station and allowed as to how
Deuce Bigelow potentially could be a big help—seeing as how he’d
been with Maven just five minutes prior to Maven’s murder. The junior
officer who’d answered the phone agreed that Deuce could have seen the
murderer and jotted down Deuce’s digits. Inspector Clements grunted in response, causing me to come back to the present time. “Not so happy when you hear who tried ta do ya, mate!” Uh-oh. This was not sounding good. “Who?” “Do th’ Modsters mean anything to you?” “Yes. We unexpectedly collared a break away group not so long ago.” “Th’ computer break-in was tied to a sympathy response by a wanna-be member.” I was confused. “Someone wanted to join the Modsters and tried to show their loyalty by attempting to crack GMA’s bank accounts?” Now it was the Inspector’s turn to be confused. “No. Th’ blackbird of th’ group you caught was mentoring a canary. She was on th’ brink of being accepted into th’ break away group when th’ three of you interfered.” “But she decided to go ahead with the crime anyways,” I finished. “Not quite.” “Huh?” “That was her crime she masterminded.” “Ah. Well, she didn’t get very far.” “There is a bit of a wee problem,” the Inspector explained. “Such as?” “Such as while we have information about th’ nature of th’ crime, we don’t know which canary to blame it upon.” “That would be a problem. The prints didn’t match?” “None at all. One of th’ other canaries was bragging to her cell mate about taking another canary into th’ group. We tried to get th’ identity of the canary out of her and th’ others but they wouldn’t sing. Even th’ blackbird wasn’t singing.” “Loyal.” The inspector grunted. “We’ll just have to wait for her to make th’ next move.” “This should be fun,” I commented. As it turned out, we didn’t have long to wait. “GMA, Mason McDaniel speaking. This was beginning to get redundant, I thought. ” “Good thing I’m not your father,” came back the reply. “Father doesn’t have this number, nor would he care to ring it even if he did have it on account of my not using my title,” I reminded the voice on the other end of the phone. “He asked me to ring round, Mason. There’s been a theft at the estate.” “What?” I stood up so fast that my knees banged into the edge of the desk. “Uh!” I grunted. “What?” came back the voice of the family butler, Mr Buxley. He’s been with my family forever, hot-looking in his youth (I once crept into his suite of rooms and looked through his family album). His parents had died of polio during the nineteen fifties, leaving a teenage David Buxley to look after himself. He wasn’t very good at academics, but the man was a whiz at organization and management and had a keen nose for real estate investments. David had helped my family’s wealth increase to its current level. Twenty years ago, after my father had struck it quite rich in the real estate market using Buxley’s advice, my father had officially retired an unprotesting Buxley. But the old chap didn’t want to leave the estate so he lived in one of the cottages. He lived alone, never married but David Buxley had fathered children—remotely, as David put it—by donating sperm. He’d reached the sperm bank’s limit on kids
and David was proud that he had ten kids running over “Nothing. Just banged me knees is all,” I replied. “Watch your language, young man!” “Yes sir,” I mumbled. I cleared my throat. “What happened?” “There’s been a theft. The family jewelry is gone.” Leave it to Buxley to be direct. Since his retirement twenty years ago, he’s been as blunt as a seaman. I swallowed, hard. “All of the jewelry?” “The most important pieces,” Buxley replied. Panic began to roil in my stomach. “Including great grandmum’s ruby ring?” Great grandmum Evelyn had been named for her father, Sir Evelyn McDaniels. Upon her 18th birthday, Sir Evelyn had presented his daughter with a ruby ring. The ruby ring was a fourteen carat cabochon, surrounded by tiny diamonds. Truly Victorian and truly a work of jeweler’s art, Evelyn’s ruby ring recently had been insured for pounds 75,000. I did the paperwork myself; it’s one of the few things my father allows me to do to ‘earn’ my family allowance. “That’s gone too,” Buxley replied. “Modsters!” I cried,
suddenly knowing what my blonde visitor had taken. I fumbled with the drawer
to my desk and managed to yank open the drawer. Writing implements flew
everywhere. “Where is it?” I cried, tossing papers, magazines and
pencils aside in my frantic search. “Where is it?” “Where is what?” Buxley wanted to know. I was busy pawing through the corporate detritus I keep in my desk drawer. Magazines, papers, keys. No keys. “The key!” I replied. Panic was boiling in my throat and my stomach was churning. “What key?” Buxley wanted to know. “The key to the estate!” I cried. “Now I know what she took!” “Took? She? Mason, you swing towards men!” Buxley reminded me. Trembling, I sat back down and tried to explain. “A few days ago, there was a break in at GMA’s offices. I thought she’d tried to crack GMA’s brokerage accounts.” “How’d you know that?” “She left the computer turned on and the screen showed GMA’s brokerage account information.” “Smart lass.” “Smart canary,” I corrected. “One of the blackbird’s lasses?” Buxley asked. “A wanna-be.” “So, she led you down the wrong trail.” “That she did. Made it look like she stole from the brokerage account when she stole the key to father’s estate.” “It’s not your fault, Mason,” Buxley reminded me. “He won’t be so angry.” “Wanna bet?” I asked. “The key was plainly marked as to what its function was.” “Yikes! Then you will have a bit of explaining to
do, luv.” The rest of my afternoon was spent planning Maven’s funeral. I made profuse apologies to the funeral home; they had hung up on me. Then I phoned in Maven’s obituary. The funeral home rang back and asked if I would be sending round a suit of clothes. ?lt;/span> In turn, I rang round to Deuce’s and sent Antoine and Deuce to the tailor’s. Maven had ordered several custom suits prior to his death and the suits needed to be picked up. I planned to dress Maven to the nines, and as I thought about it, I fingered the heavy gold necklace around my neck. Yes, I decided. Maven should have this to wear in the afterlife. After all the arrangements were made, I walked for a long while
along the As I walked, I thought about Maven’s death, the apparent break-in of GMA’s financial accounts and the theft of my family’s silver. Could the three events be connected? The clues were few: Maven was found dead, no motive yet. I thought about the blonde woman. She had taken great care to cover her face with oversized sunglasses and a floppy hat. She left no fingerprints, nothing behind to alert me to her presence except for leaving GMA’s financial information on my computer screen. Now I suspected her actions were a ploy to cover for the real items she wanted to steal. Was the theft of my father’s house key an opportunistic theft? Did the blonde woman really intend to rob GMA’s bank accounts? How did she know the key to my father’s house was in my desk drawer? I had to come to at least one conclusion. That conclusion was the theft of the house key was an opportunistic theft. No one, except myself, knew that hidden in my desk drawer I had a key to my father’s estate. At some point, the thief got curious and opened the desk drawer. She saw the clearly marked key, and took the opportunity to get something better—and much less traceable than breaking into a brokerage account via computer. Jewelry could always be taken apart and as I knew the
blonde thief was a wanna-be
canary for the break-away group our happy trio had collared, I knew how
capable the canary would be in spiriting away my family jewels. ?lt;/span> I sighed. For now, things would have to wait. If only the blackbird would sing. “You think so?” I asked Antoine. It was the
following morning, bright, sunny and suspiciously warm for “It’s a start,” Antoine offered as he slid into the car next to me. Over the years, I had grown immune to Antoine’s charms, although I did walk around in a fantasy for several months. A phone buzzed. “Good morning, GMA,” I automatically said. Antoine chuckled and nudged my arm. I looked around, and barely hid a groan. For there, standing next to Antoine’s side of the car, was Chuck Yates. ?lt;/span>“Mason!” Chuck’s voice sounded hearty and I wondered what he wanted. Antoine cast a look at me, causing me to remember my manners. “Antoine Laconte, Charles Yates. Charles, Antoine,” I said. Antoine smiled at Chuck. For his part, Chuck nodded at Antoine. Fond of pub food and points, Chuck had grown both balder and tubbier since I’d seen him last. At the rate he was expanding, I estimated he would no longer be able to fit in a pub booth. As if knowing what I was thinking, Chuck scratched his balding head and patted his stomach. “Good food in Antoine grunted. “Good food and Chuck laughed. “We’re known for things other than food, Antoine, old chap. Now,” Chuck said, and the tone in his voice told me I wasn’t going to like what was coming next. “Now, Mason. Seems like you shorted me the other day.” I knew it. The vultures have returned, I thought to myself. “And what do you mean, Charles?” I deliberately used his formal name. “You know, the payoff?” Chuck replied. “You shorted me.” “I did no such thing. I have the receipt right here,” I patted my day planner. “Mmm, hmm,” Chuck told me. Sighing, I rummaged around in my day planner and came up with the receipt I had the courier get. I showed the receipt to Chuck. Smiling, Chuck only nodded. Antoine leaned towards me and for a moment I thought he was going to kiss me. Then the moment passed when Antoine whispered, “He’s blackmailing.” I understood immediately. “I see,” I said guardedly, hoping that Chuck would think I was responding to him and not responding to Antoine. In response, Chuck patted his pocket, rummaged inside it
and came up with a bag. I didn’t have to look inside to know the bag
contained yet more rolls of film from our happy trio’s excursion to The slimy troll—meaning Chuck--dangled the bag in front of my face. Antoine looked at me and raised an eyebrow. I raised an eyebrow back. Should I give in to Chuck’s blackmail? I mean, how bad could the photos be? “Catchin you with a man, mate,” Chuck said as if reading my mind. “Your father would not like it.” “My father,” I replied coldly, “is not on speaking terms with me because I refuse to use the family titles. By rights, I am Lord Mason to you, Charles.” Chuck winced at both the formal use of his name (he disdains our bonnie Prince Charles) and he winced at the fact that I could use the title Lord. From the parties I attended, the current gossip was that Chuck Yates was currently shopping to purchase a title for himself. He continued to dangle the bag. I gave in. “How much?” “Another thousand.” This time, Antoine winced. “Surely you’re not going to give in, Mason?” he asked, eyeing the bag Chuck was holding. He nodded ever so slightly and fortunately, I picked up on what he wanted to do. “What can I do?” I replied to Antoine’s question. I pressed my foot to the pedal as Antoine snatched the bag from Chuck’s hand. The tires screeched on the tarmac and Antoine’s laugh told me that he’d successfully grabbed the bag. The car roared merrily along the road with the wind blowing back Antoine’s long hair. "My man Antoine!" I shouted, feeling happy for a change. "That will show him! I hope," Antoine commented, his face breaking out into a grin. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw Chuck growing very red in the face. Antoine leaned out the window and yelled something in French. It didn't sound very nice. When he’d settled himself back into the car seat, I asked Antoine, “What did you yell at him?” “I told him he was a gutless eunuch,” Antoine replied, opening the bag. I laughed. Antoine pulled out the bag’s contents. “Three rolls of undeveloped film,” he said. “I wonder how many more rolls of film there are?” “Dunno. At least you didn’t have to pay for these rolls.” Antoine started to break the roll of film he was holding, then thought better of it. Pulling open the glove compartment, Antoine took out a bottle of open wine and held it?up. “That would work,” I commented. “That way, the film is utterly destroyed. Nice work!” Antoine smiled at the praise. to be continued in Part III. |