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:
I was yanked back to the present by a subtle elbow to the ribs from Mary. Then I was shaking the hand of the groom, a kid still so pale from his ordeal that the black stubble on his chin stood out like the studs on his shirt front. The bride, petite but lovely with glistening eyes and a stray sprig of baby’s breath hanging down from the floral wreath that anchored her veil, took my hand next and squeezed it as Mary had squeezed Harry’s.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, as though she actually knew who I was. “Thank you for being part of our community.”
2.
The reception was held at Killdeer Country Club, a small place near the church. Small and old, its golf course tree-choked and the wood paneling of the room where we had our cocktails dark and well scarred.
Harry looked the worm holes over approvingly and even smiled down at a worn spot in the carpet. “These old-money guys know how to squeeze a nickel,” he said.
He wasn’t exactly new money himself, being the descendant of a sturdy grove of Boston lawyers that had sent out shoots as far south as New York City. Harry was now the head man of that southern outpost, and it was getting harder to remember him as the college roommate who’d often had to borrow beer money from me. For one thing, he looked quite different, the dark hair he’d had at Boston College now as thin and as lovingly preserved as Killdeer’s ancient carpeting. The face beneath it had also changed, too many expense-account lunches having both widened it and softened its regular features.
Mary, another college friend, looked more like her old self, though she’d also sacrificed in the hair department, in her case to the gods of fashion. Her honey-colored hair, once long and incredibly straight, was now short and curled. There was a subtler difference too, one that fell under the category of behavior. She’d never been much of a drinker at Boston, but she’d already reduced her first Killdeer Manhattan to a glass of musical cubes.
She noticed me noticing that and spoke before I could comment. “My bad back is acting up. That church pew must have been designed by Cotton Mather.” And then, before I could comment on her comment, “So Kit’s family is old money?”
“Emile’s too,” said Beth, whose family had a little bit of their own socked away. As usual, she was barely sipping her champagne cocktail, the better to preserve a figure that was elegantly thin.
“Then why Quebec for a honeymoon?” Harry asked. “I heard somebody talking about that outside the church. If they’re loaded, why not the French Riviera?”
“Why not the Buick Riviera?” I said, just to be saying something.
“One of them has family in Quebec,” Beth replied. “Emile, I think. And, as you said, you don’t get to be old money by spending it.”
An hour or two after the best dinner I’d had in months, I worked up the nerve to ask Mary to dance. To earn that privilege — and to limber up — I’d danced several times with Beth, acquitting myself okay, though we hadn’t exactly moved as one. Dancing with Mary, on the other hand, was as comfortable as walking beside her. We’d been more than friends back at Boston College, prior to Harry’s ascendancy, and we’d had more than our share of awkward moments since, but the club’s small dance floor seemed to be neutral ground.
“You’re not counting,” Mary observed. “You used to count when we danced to keep time.”
“Now I say the rosary.”
“That’ll be the day.”
I told myself that we’d reached a new plateau, courtesy of the passage of time. In five or six years, we might even be confidants again.
Mary’s next words made that goal seem closer and less desirable. “Do you think Harry’s happy?”
“If he’s not, he’s losing more upstairs than his hair.”
“Maybe he’s just been married too long. Maybe he’s in a rut.”
“It can’t be that,” I said.
I was saved from saying more by a collision with a couple of dancing bears. I moved us to a neutral corner, but awkwardly.
“Sorry, Owen,” Mary said. “I’ve got you counting again.”
The other dancers all seemed to be following our example and moving away from the center of the dance floor. I understood the trend when the bride and groom took that place of honor. He’d lost his tuxedo jacket and she her veil and shoes, but they were both still smiling like happy newborns.
“I wonder how they’ll be feeling in ten years,” Mary said, a little wistfully.
“You and Harry can ask them then,” I said.
3.
Two days later I was at my day job, sorting packages for an express shipper that had several acres under roof near the Newark airport. It was the latest in a long series of jobs I didn’t care about, but one of the pleasanter ones, as the place was clean and dry and well lit. The work was steady and usually kept my mind from wandering, which might have been a bigger benefit than the dental plan. My supervisor, Martha, around whom the place had been built, had a soft spot for me. She was flexible about my shifts, which was important on those rare occasions when I had a case to investigate.
I’d just taken my place on the line that morning when Martha tapped me on the shoulder. One of her assistants was at her elbow, ready to cover for me. Martha led me away from the noise of the machines.
“Telephone for you, Owen. Some kind of emergency.”
I took the call in her office, wondering which of my dwindling list of relations would be on the other end. It turned out to be Harry Ohlman.
“Owen, sorry to be bothering you at work. Mary was so upset I promised her I would.”
“Amanda okay?” I asked, naming their daughter.
“Yes, she’s fine. It’s about Kit and Emile Derival. Owen, they’re dead. They were mugged on some street in Quebec last night. Robbed and shot. Mary’s sick about it. I am myself.”
I sat down heavily at the little table where I got my performance reviews. “What do you know?”
“That’s most of it. They’d gone out to dinner and a play. They were walking to some nightclub district when it happened. I guess Quebec’s a city where you feel safe at night.”
I never would. “I’m sorry, Harry. And I’m sorry Mary’s upset. You said you had to promise her you’d call me?”
“You know why, Owen. She still thinks you’re Sherlock, Jr. She thinks you’ll figure out why this happened, when there isn’t any deeper reason than some drug addict needing a fix. Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to find the guy who did this and fix him for good. If I thought there was a chance of that, I’d drag you up to Canada myself. I tried to tell Mary there wasn’t anything anyone could do, but she wouldn’t listen. Sorry to lay this on you. Call me if you think of anything.”
“I will,” I said.
4.
I assumed Harry had meant that I should call if I came up with anything useful, so I didn’t bother him with the thoughts that spoiled the accuracy of my sorting for the first hour or so after his call. Those thoughts included the memory of Kit Derival’s last words to me, “Thank you for being part of our community,” and some reflections on grief. Did it help the family, I wondered, if the grief over these senseless killings spread out as far as possible, so far that they affected the work of a package handler none of them even knew? Did that make the pool of grief they were drowning in the slightest bit less deep? I decided it didn’t.