Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012
- Автор: Макдермид Вэл, Манфредо Лу
- Год: 2012
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012». Краткое содержание книги:
Darby looked after them and sighed before turning back to us. “Take a load off, Noland,” he said, “we’ll work this all out. How ’bout you, Ted? Lousy day out, we’ve got hot soup and we’re listening to some good tunes. Can you stay a bit?”
Ted let himself be convinced and the foreman, John Daws, headed for the door, never having uttered a word. No one seemed to note his leaving except Nadine, who intercepted him and unlatched the door to let him out. I saw a look pass between them, but couldn’t begin to guess what it might mean.
I glanced at my watch, calculating how long I’d need to stay to be polite now that my business here was a bust, and decided a couple of hours would do. After all, it was Darby who needed to stay in my good graces since he’d reneged on our deal.
The soup was outstanding, served up in huge crockery bowls along with hot crusty bread, and, as always, Darby’s playlist was a great listen. In addition to their musical opinions, I learned Noland and Ted had played football together in high school. “I did all the work and he got all the glory,” Noland said, a line so glib it was clear this was a regular routine. “I was a lineman,” he went on, “opened up holes you could drive a truck through. All Ted had to do was sashay up the field and into the end zone — and the crowd would go wild. While he was doing his little victory dance I’d be limping to the sidelines to have some body part iced.”
“Hey, but I’m the one who gave you your start with this collecting thing,” Ted grinned. “Remember? I went over to CDs and gave you all my LPs. ’Course, you didn’t tell me they were going to be worth this kind of money someday.”
“Foresight,” Noland said, tapping his temple. “I may be brawny, but I’ve got my full share of brains.”
They argued over the best renditions of the songs Darby spun — who did the best cover of Neil Young’s “Helpless.” Whose styling of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” was superior. Why do guys always have to argue? They may as well have stood on a table, thumped their chests, and bellowed.
Beth never came back into the room, but I had a hunch she was somewhere close by. I felt as if we were being watched and thought I caught movement in the doorway a couple of times.
About four o’clock Ted decided he’d best get back on the job and I figured this was an opening for me to take my leave, but Darby, who was in fine spirits by then, asked me to stay awhile longer. He disappeared into the inner sanctum of his record room and came out ten minutes later cradling a stack of albums.
“Noland, I really am sorry about the way I’ve been acting, man. You can buy those albums at the price I quoted Session.” He nodded toward the table. “And I know you’ve always lusted after this one, so take it as my peace offering.” He handed over an LP and I was perplexed by Noland’s jubilant reaction. It was Grand Funk Railroad’s 1973 We’re an American Band. It’s a nice album, stamped on gold vinyl, but only worth twenty to thirty dollars and Noland was carrying on like he’d hit the lottery. Darby saw my frown. “He’s a colored-vinyl freak and this one’s got the four stickers included. He’s been looking for one that’s complete for years.”
That explained it. This had nothing to do with monetary value, it was Noland’s personal Moby Dick.
Darby placed the rest of the albums into a crate and set it at my feet. “Restitution,” he said. “I think these will make it up to you.”
I reached for the crate, asking about content and price, but he stayed my hand. “It’s a surprise collection, a gift — an apology. Look at them later.”
I left the guys as they were starting in on a new playlist and went to the kitchen to say goodbye to Nadine. I found her at the back door talking in low tones with John Daws. She looked flustered when she saw me. Daws gave me a level look, nodded once, and walked away.
“There are always questions,” Nadine said, nodding vaguely toward the construction area. “Darby’s not one to get involved in the particulars if it’s got nothing to do with his records, and his bride,” she made the word sound frivolous, “can’t decide what to wear in the morning so it falls to me.”
“And you’ve already got plenty to do,” I said sympathetically. “I wanted to say goodbye to Beth, but I can’t find her.”
“She’s off somewhere with her brother,” Nadine said.
“Is her brother living here now?”
“Gawd, no!” Nadine said. “He’s just here for two weeks. One down, one to go. Honest to Pete, there’s something wrong with that kid. He gives me the willies.”
“Making adults squirm is a popular teen pastime, Nadine. As I recall, Darby went through a Goth phase that creeped you out a bit.”
“Oh, Session, do not remind me of that,” she said, but a grin spread across her face, pleating up wrinkles she otherwise managed to hide.
“He grew out of it,” I said. “Kyle will probably end up as a respectable dentist or some such thing.”
This time Nadine did harrumph out loud.
I didn’t look in the surprise crate until I was in the car. There were eighteen albums, all superior to the ones Darby had lured me out here with in the first place, and he’d given these to me. The offering of atonement was way overdone and I supposed I should have felt guilty about taking them, but I didn’t.
I drove home through a now clear North Carolina evening, with the Indigo Girls’ “Closer to Fine” blaring through the car’s speakers. It’s one of my favorite road-trip songs and as I sang along I was feeling pretty freakin’ fine myself. I should have known I was tempting fate.
I was bragging to Dave the next morning in the shop’s workroom. “It looked bleak there for a while, but in the end I scored big.” I pointed to the albums on the table.
Dave works for me — sort of. He’s not much on chain-of-command. We’ve known each other too long and he’s older and continues to treat me like a kid sister. He pretty much defines his job however he pleases, which is fine by me; I couldn’t make it without him — in the business or in my life. He’s my best bud.
He whistled long and low as he thumbed through the albums. “If Darby just handed these over, he must have been feeling a whole lotta guilt.”
I told him how the afternoon had unraveled and Dave shook his head. “Boys and their toys. Must have been a pretty bad wrangle. I don’t know Noland that well, but Darby’s not one to welsh on a deal.”
My cell phone chimed and at first I thought I had a bad connection, then realized the caller was sobbing. “Session, you’ve gotta come. It’s all messed up. I don’t know what to do. Darby wants you here.”
“Beth? What’s wrong? What’s happened?” I cringed, wondering if I was about to get sucked into playing marriage counselor — a role for which I am woefully ill equipped.
“He’d dead!” Beth wailed. “Noland’s dead and they think Darby killed him.”
Beth bawled on, growing more hysterical. I couldn’t get a grasp on the details, but the broad strokes were bad enough. I tried to calm her and told her I’d be out as soon as I could make arrangements.
My unfortunate response to stress is to get the inappropriate giggles and I felt the first one gurgling up as I switched off my cell. Dave knows this is a sign of sure trouble and I saw a frown stitch itself across his forehead.
The landline in the shop rang and I instinctively picked it up, trying to get control of myself. The caller identified himself as Sheriff’s Deputy Jared Fowler. In a deep, serious voice, he asked some perfunctory questions to establish my identity before dropping the hammer. “Sheriff Neal Pierce has dispatched me to Raleigh to question you about events you witnessed yesterday. We ask that you stay where you are and not discuss this with anyone until I’ve had a chance to talk with you. I’m on the road now, I’ll be there in less than an hour.”