The Beauchene Debacle

Scene 1

My blood felt… thicker than I remembered. Warm and viscous, I felt it seeping past my thighs, soaking the seat of my pants where I slumped back on the ornate sitting couch. 

I had liked the couch, even told my host that, not an hour ago. Seemed a shame to ruin such lovely fabric, with a couple quarts of my finest blood, but that’s life, I guess. No one gets to hold on to their nice things forever. Some poor sap will bleed all over it, eventually. 

My cheap suit and shirt lay in tatters. Long raking cuts peeled my chest open and the shining bone of my ribs glittering under the light of the ridiculous chandelier above. Who needs a 12-foot, silver chandelier in their sitting room? The kind of people who like to flex their wealth on the folks doing the sitting. 

A charming waltz played on the record player in the corner. The tune quickened and lifted, taking my mind and eyeballs for a nasty little spin around the room. The gold trim in the wall paper whirled maddening spirals as I tried to steady myself. I wanted to stick around for a few more moments, needed to see this play out. 

A tower of fur loomed over me, its bristling crown brushed the silver base of the chandelier twelve feet overhead. I saw a half-dozen limbs and a hundred claws swirling overhead. The adrenaline kicked back in, centered everything. Just two limbs. Just ten claws. Just one werewolf. 

It stooped down. A string of saliva stretched down from their quivering lower jaw. Fearsome shoulders heaved as the beast gave a long, hungry sniff, exhorting in the hot iron of my blood puddle. The air blew wet and heavy from its snout. It drew closer, jaw opening and closing, but never snapping the teeth. Tasting the air. Tasting my scent in the air. It drew closer and I realized we stared into one another’s eyes. 

The saliva dripped from its mouth and landed on my open chest wound. It sizzled and burned the rib brown where it landed. A bright white light filled my sight at the pain, but it passed and when I opened my eyes the beast had drawn back. Head cocked. Watching. Waiting.  

Above the werewolf, I could see stars twinkling through the majestic branches of the chandelier. Skylights, open to the heavens.  

Just another evening in paradise. 

I smiled.

——— 

I had eased down onto the same couch for the first time just three days ago. My cheap suit jacket and thick boots didn’t fit the room any better then. The butler left me basking in the opulence of the sitting room, wondering why the hell I’d ever left the city. 

Well that answer came easy. Money. A big fat paycheck to solve a little family dispute. With discretion. 

And apparently unarmed. 

“Mr. Picker, may I relieve you of your coat and gun?”

That’s how the butler had put it when I crossed the threshold. As if he’d be doing me a favor. 

“Well. I see how you keep the job,” I’d said, shrugging out of my trench coat and handing him my snub-nose. “You have such a disarming manner.”

“Ha ha, sir,” he’d said. Not laughing, just two colorless sounds, the air passing from his lungs with a the vibrant personality of a door swishing shut. Not that the joke deserved much better, still, I noted that butler James Reynolds had that unshakeability that the wealthy seem to value in their house staff. 

He took my coat and gun, then led me to the sitting room.

“Mrs. Beauchene will join you in a moment,” he said.

I turned to ask him how long she’d be, but he’d disappeared. Quiet sumbitch, bet they’d paid him extra for that, too. 

I looked around the room, taking in the gilded walls, the gleaming chandelier, the gorgeous skylights, and the ornate scroll of woodwork that seemed to wend its way off furniture backs up to the crown molding. A massive family crest carved with a deft hand into aged oak hung on the wall opposite me. Two griffins, a hunting bird of some kind, and a rearing stallion. Quite the show. Old money oozed from every surface, in other words. Two couches, one striped and one floral, sat with claw-footed decorum, skeptical, no doubt, that my low-born tush would sully them.

I unbuttoned my suit jacket and eased onto the chrysanthemums splayed across the couch facing the door that led to the back of the house.  

“Oil fountain would look just fine on that empty patch of wall,” I muttered to myself, noting that the antique didn’t squeak when I gave it my weight.

“It’s considered tacky by most folks in our social circles,” a bright, clear voice rang out behind me. 

With a start, I made to rise up and greet the old bird, but her wiry hand pressed into my shoulder with an air of command. I sank back into the couch.

A waft of crisp clear jasmine stung my nose, carried by oud. Perfume… something European… regal… I couldn’t place it exactly, but I knew the profile. Typically a scent you’d pick up on a younger woman prowling for love or fun.

After my first few months as a PI, I’d sat down and trained my sniffing hairs on a range of high-end perfumes and colognes. Gave myself some expensive headaches, but my cases often took me snuffling through the boudoirs of the upper class. Typically, I went to find out which spouse had left their prettiest underwear in the wrong bed. When you get paid by the case, a quick sniff can go a long way. At the time, I thought that might be the weirdest thing I had to deal with in this case. But of course… you and I know things get a little hairier than that toward the end.

“No sense playing the gentleman here,” the woman said, still behind me. “I didn’t hire you as an escort.” 

The clarity of her voice belied her age. She rounded the arm of the couch, her fingers trailing light off my shoulder. She had a brilliant mane of white hair, shot through with streaks of black, and combed till it shone like the night’s last stars. She had a trim figure with immaculate posture; a frame unbent by time.  

“Though… Now I’ve had a look at you,” she said with a quick grin, “I won’t rule it out.”

“I… that’s not my particular line of work,” I stammered, before I could remember to apologize or grovel or introduce myself.

“Of course not,” she said, “but I find that most people have their price.”

“You might find that I don’t,” I said, bristling. She smiled back. 

“And yet, here you. Still. Sit…” Grace itself, the older woman took her own seat on the couch opposite and crossed her legs. Her light green dress offset the darker green of her nails with perfect balance. A little smile played around her lips. 

We stared at each other for a long moment. Green dress. Green nails. Green money.

I shifted my weight and started to rise from the cushion.

Scene 2

As usual, I’d rolled into town without much cash to spare. I needed the lady’s cash more than I wanted to admit. More than I wanted to run screaming from the room. Barely. So I needed to salvage this. I gave her another look. Lithe and strong, conscious of her movements and graceful because of it. She wore her gray streaks with an air of haught and honor. A testament to her survival and experience. She put on airs of familiarity, to draw in the unsuspecting, but she had a lightning-rod spine that seemed to draw her chin up. A queen towering over her subjects. I figured some polite ingratiation might be in order.

“I think, maybe, we’ve strayed away from the intent here. I’d hate to give you the wrong impression,” I sounded like the work-starved investigator that I was. An uber-polite, people-pleasing robot. I hated it, but I had to keep a civil tongue. She smirked at me. “As I’m sure your man James told you, I’ve been at this for over 20 years and solved some really nasty cases. Let’s talk about how I can help you.”

Beep. Boop. Robot P.I. She didn’t respond. 

“Mrs. Beauchene–” I began again.

“Oh, call me ‘Ida,’ for goodness sake” she said, with a little laugh. She adjusted her legs and flashed some ankle. 

“Of course,” I said. “Thank you, ma’am.” She frowned. “You brought me out here for a sensitive matter, as I understand it.”

Beep. Boop. How. May. I. Assist. You?

“I did,” she replied. “I found myself in need of a discreet investigator who wouldn’t blanch at some rule bending and James found you. Lucky us.”

“Lucky us,” I mimicked back. “And how’d he hear about me?”

She waved a hand in the air as if that meant nothing. The mechanisms of how James produced results for her held little concern, apparently. It didn’t matter. I knew the score. They’d burned bridges with a few of the other decent PIs in town and that left the new guy or the new in town guy.

Here I sat. New in town. Ready to get screwed. Nailed to that gorgeous sofa by unpaid bills and the predatory eyes of a woman who always got what she wanted. 

“He had one installed,” she said. “Did you know that when you said it?”

I blinked.

“I’m sorry?”

“An oil fountain,” she replied, smiling again. “Just there. In the wall behind you. I found the oil, secured the deeds, subdued the banks, fended off the wolves, and he… well. He had his days.”

I craned my neck around to study the wall for a moment and then turned back. 

“I think I prefer the wallpaper,” I said.

“As do I,” she replied, with another smile that verged on scandal. As if we two had just stumbled across a deeper secret that only we could ever know. I hated it. 

“So, James found me,” I blurted, trying to get this conversation heading in a way that got me paid. “Mason Picker, Private Investigator. What can I help you with?”

Beep. Boop.

The smile drained away from her face.

“Always the rush. So tedious,” she mumbled, a bit dramatic, I thought. “Would you like some tea?” 

“No, thank you.”

“Are you sure? We have unsweet.” She put a fine enough point on that un to prick me. 

“I’m sure,” I said, adding a cold grin for flavor. “But thanks.”

“Well ‘Mason Picker,’” she said. “You were much renowned for your discretion in Nashville.” I kept the grin up. “Before you… decided to leave town. You had a similar reputation in Memphis before that. And New Orleans, briefly? Oh and Kansas City, Pensacola, Savannah… and Las Vegas, was it? A little departure from your good Southern senses there, but we’re forgiven our trespasses, I believe. Where before that? Oh, I don’t recall…” 

My grin had faded as hers crept wider. She could have slid a hot, sandy cast iron pan down my pants and irked me less. She’d done her research, sure enough. If she knew all that, she probably knew I didn’t have a great foothold in town. No connections. No help. And the kind of past I’d clearly played checker across. 

“And now Charleston, of all places,” she concluded. “Lucky us.” 

I found my temper broiling and my back muscles knitting around themselves, strangling my spine. I focused on sitting still and coached my face into neutrality.

“Oh don’t look so grim!” she said with a throaty chuckle and sultry blink. “I’m only teasing. You’re here precisely because of that reputation.” I gave her what I can only imagine was a pretty grim smile. “You’re a rule bender. An answer chaser. Someone who has brushed with the bizarre and the occult. And I, of course, am Ida Beauchene, much renowned for my oil dynasty and… eccentric approach to certain business dealings.”

She gazed at me, smug lipped, while my stomach rankled.

What a hot mess. Of course I’d had my brushes with the “bizarre and the occult.” In my experience, once the wealthy got bored with capitalism and one anothers’ spouses they always gravitated toward the weirdest shit they could find. They paid well to make it all go away again. It made for a lonely, exciting career and some ugly scars.

Oh and for her part… “eccentric business dealings” meant that she’d been implicated in a holy host of frauds, espionage, and murder. Never formally charged, of course, but… heavily implicated. 
It occurred to me that a smart P.I. might not want this case. That it might not involve the typical boudoir sniff, pic snap, and report back procedure. That it might kill me.

“Chrysanthemums,” I blurted. Ida started in her seat. Good start. 

“I’m sorry?” she said.

“The couch, the pattern that caught my eye. They’re chrysanthemums, right?” I kept my eye on her while running a hand across the couch beside me. I opened my posture a bit, making myself look more relaxed, open and inviting. “A vibrant flower. One of my favorites.”

“Mine, as well,” she said, the smile creeping back as she grew a little lighter in her seat. I fought down a grin as I powered down the polite P.I. robot and went for the conversational jugular.

“So, Ida, I think I can help you. What’s the trouble with Adelaide?” 

Her smile crumbled and she sank back into her couch with a tiny twitch of the eye. Touched a nerve there. Her lip curled up a hair for just a moment, as she reigned in frustration. What a treat. I plowed ahead.

“Women of your… status typically call me before their husbands die under mysterious circumstances. Mostly, you pay cops to protect you while you go on about your business of the big ugly legal crimes. So this is something you don’t want Johnny Law nosing in on. Maybe you don’t even know the depth of it yet, but you know you want a discreet investigation. You have all the lawyers and paid officers you need for your business and I can’t imagine it’s because you want me to dig through whatever James keeps in the back of his underwear drawer.” Her smile leapt back at that one, showing the bare hint of her natural laugh lines and a recent history of botox. “So. Ida. I’m busier than I look. Tell me about Adelaide.”

My smile came easy while I wrapped up. I had her pinned to the couch with my own piercing gaze now. Felt nice.

“Well, Mr. Picker, I see you’re a bit of a showboat after all,” she said, adjusting her seat and gliding a hand over her knee to smooth a non-existent wrinkle.  “Yes, I brought you here because of–” 

She cut short and cocked an ear up. I’d heard it, too: a set of light footfalls crossing the hardwoods of the foyer. The lady had a keen ear. She held a palm up at me for a moment, then rested it back on her knee. We waited together, listening as the footsteps drew closer.

Scene 3

Adelaide prowled into the room. She shot me a quick look, appraising me in an instant, as I did her. She had the same piercing blues as her mother, and put them to good use on my suit and scruffy hair. For her part, she had a certain slouching independence about her and a slackness of face. Something about her didn’t fit right, to my eyes, but I couldn’t place it. She wore a lilac dress, a stunning complement to her mother’s greens, but I don’t think she saw it that way. 

“Who’s this?” she asked, curt and unimpressed. “He looks horrid. Is he ill? And what’s wrong with his nose? Not your usual fare by miles.”

You want to say something like, “No, you frumpy little welp, I’m not well. Oh my nose? The murdering bastard who stole my childhood, beat me to a pulp, and left me for dead also broke my nose and didn’t pause to help me set it. Rude, I know. But that’s murderous bastards for you. No. No ma’am. If I look unwell it’s because I hate your mother, y’all’s couch, y’all’s house,  y’all’s money, the fact that I need  y’all’s money, and  y’all’s paper-dry, obsequious, overly-tall butler.” 

However. Instead of saying these things, you stare at people and try to be real sure that you’re staring and not glaring. Adelaide stared back. 

“My daughter, Adelaide,” said Ida.

“Ma’am,” I said to the young woman. She huffed at me, and sneered. Nothing over-exaggerated, just the minimal amount of effort needed to debase me. I had a strange moment, where I realized my brain had ground to a halt on something. Her whole attitude had thrown some grit in the gears. Not that she had one, or that she didn’t deserve to have one. What did I know about her life? It felt like the pouty posture and antagonism of a teenager, but my brain couldn’t fit that into this grown woman’s frame. She needed to grow up, I guess. Or I needed to reevaluate when folks should be considered “grown.” 

“Adelaide, this is Mason Picker,” Ida continued, “he’s here to help us find your father’s dueling pistols.”

First I’d heard about any damned dueling pistols or investigation of any kind, and that pissed me off no end, but once I heard “here to help us,” I kept my eyes on Adelaide, looking for a reaction. I caught the flash in her eyes. Interest, certainly. Maybe some furtiveness? Hard to say. Reading too much in a flash of the eyes can get you into a world of trouble, but they can get you started in the right direction. If I really was here about these damn pistols, then I’d get to chat with this charming, age-confused gremlin again soon.

“Well. Try not to fuck him,” Adelaide said, shifting her glare to her mother. 

I wondered how I should interpret that, but I didn’t really like how it looked from any angle.

 “Lorenzo’s picking me up, I’ll be back later.” She turned on her heels and prowled back out of the room, too quick for her mother to protest. 

Ida opened her mouth to shout at her, then slowly closed it. Maybe I caught a mouthed, “I love you,” on her lips, but maybe I imagined it. Seemed like a tough crowd for that kind of language. 

Ida turned back to me. We heard a car pull up in front of the house, that gravel driveway sound carried inside.

“Nice girl,” I said. A car door shut and tires crackled around the circle before they faded away.

Ida sighed, then reached down to the table beside her and rang a little bell. 

James appeared in the doorway and said nothing. I noticed the fringe of gray around his temples and the wispy baldness atop his head. I noticed the straightness of his back and the quiet power in his hands. I also noticed a complete lack of emotion on his face. I didn’t shiver, but only because I’d had that kind of reaction scoured out of me a long time ago. A younger version of me would have shivered, which told the older version of me to keep my eyes open around that one.

“Two drinks,” she said. “Please.”

“Just one. I don’t drink,” I said, meaning on the job. James gave me a look. A frank, drawn down, and honest look. A look that told me he knew damn well that I drank as well as what I drank and when I drank it. He slid his gaze back to Ida. I let my gaze slide away, no point in arguing.

“Yes, ma’am, just a moment,” James said, then disappeared without a sound.

Ida stared out of the window, as if watching the car pull away. We waited in silence. Somewhere in the distance ice tinkled into a glass. Somewhere far from my conscious mind, I felt an unutterable joy.

“So,” I said, pulling a notebook and pen from my chest pocket, “maybe start with the pistols and we’ll work our way to Adelaide.”
Ida didn’t seem to hear me.

“He’s a charming enough young man, I’m just… worried.” 

“Worried about what?” 

The last thing I wanted to ask, but the only way forward. It ain’t always a glamorous gig, investigation.

“That they’re not right for each other,” she said. “That he’s a bad influence on her.”

“Right,” I said, guessing at some undercurrents to what she meant here and choosing to sidestep them rather than call her out. “How old is your daughter?” 

Ida smiled. I treated myself to a small frustrated sigh, Ida didn’t seem to notice.

“Whyever do you ask, Mr. Picker?” she asked, with a small grin. 

To my credit, I didn’t roll my eyes. 

“She just seems old enough to have her old place and…” I trailed off without saying the bit about the hoar frost of pertness the young woman left in her wake.

“Yes, well, we have our… disagreements, but we live with one another,” Ida said, face souring just a bit. “She’ll inherit all this and carry our name, so until I can truly believe she can handle it without guidance I’m reluctant to… well… I like to keep her close.”

There’s an old phrase about where one should keep their friends and enemies that leapt to my mind here. I let it drift pass without saying a word. Ida glared at me, so maybe my face said it plain enough. Who knows. We had an awkward moment while I pretended to make a note of this and plan my next 

With impeccable timing, James arrived. Two glasses, brown water on ice. Sweet succor of the gods. He handed one to Ida, then pointedly placed mine on the coaster protecting the side table on my right. 

“Thank you, James,” Ida said, sipping.

“Ma’am,” James said, exiting quietly. I decided he gave me the creeps, not an easy thing to do at this point in my life. 

“So Adelaide still lives at home? I ask because it may be pertinent to the case.” 

Ida’s grin slid.

“Yes. The case. Alright.” She set the drink down and steepled her fingers in front of her. 

“As I said, this is about the Beauchene dueling pistols. And yes, about Adelaide as well.

Sometime in the last month, the dueling pistols disappeared from the safe at the foot of my bed. They’re a family heirloom, handed down through Jacques’ line for generations. They don’t have much value for resale, I just want them back in the house. In the family.”

She paused, looked like she might continue, but then clammed up altogether. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

“That’s a good start, Mrs. Beauchene, but I have a few more questions” I said. She frowned but didn’t interrupt me. And thus, we hopped on the merry-go-round of investigative questions. I fell into my routine, felt the comfort of it snuggling up next to the bourbon and easing me back into control of my life.

Where do you keep the pistols? Do you know when they were stolen? Any special markings? Do you have any enemies? 

Her bedroom, in a safe at the foot of her bed.

Within the last two weeks, most likely three nights ago, she awoke to a sound, but drifted back to sleep. 

Only her, James, and Adelaide knew the combination to the safe. 

The pistols had the Beauchene family crest on them, other than that they looked like run of the mill 18th century dueling pistols.

At the question about enemies she paused to think, then laughed uproariously and declined to name names. “None that would bother with such trifles,” were her exact words. The question did launch her into a spiral of suspicion around Lorenzo, his influence on Adelaide, and his likely proclivity for theft of many kinds. That’s how Adelaide factored into this.

“I trust my daughter, of course,” Ida said, “totally and completely. That trust does not extend to the people she chooses to date.”

I nodded and “Ida mistrusts suitor, L.,” made it into my notes, but I didn’t encourage the topic. Lorenzo could speak for himself when I tracked him down. 

“Ok, the last question, for now,” I said. “Would you mind taking a guess at their worth? Helps me narrow down which fences might come across them.”

“Oh… of course… I think we last had them appraised… 10 years ago? For insurance… And the sums were still miniscule, not more than 10 or 15 thousand.”

I kept my eyebrows from popping up. “Miniscule” apparently meant more than the worth of my old Isuzu. It wasn’t the most lucrative heist of the century, but 10 grand is a decent motive in other social circles. 

“Understood, thank you ma’am. I think it’d be best to start in the bedroom.”

“Why not start right here and move to the bedroom?” Ida asked, voice all a’smokey. This time I did sigh. Loud. Exasperated. I reached for my glass, but the ice tingled emptily. The bourbon had loosened me up. 

“Ida!” I blurted, feeling my decorum rupture, “Could we please cut the–”

“Oh I’m only teasing!” She cut me off as she smiled and stood abruptly with a slap of the couch. “Come, let’s investigate the horrors of ‘ma boudoir.’” 

She whisked out past me, into the foyer, so she missed my tiny sneer. I lumbered to my feet behind her and fell into the draft of her flowery scents.

 Scene 4

The stairs trailed down along the back of the sitting room wall and landed in the front hall. The polished oak banister slipped out at the end, making a languorous sprawl into the foyer. Odd how a staircase can scream at you about the latent grace and power of a household, and funny how the polish doesn’t cover up the nicks and scrapes of age. 

The lady led me up the stairs. I didn’t catch so much as a whiff of James. Fella knew when to make himself scarce, I guess. Perhaps he’d had some experiences with the “horrors of the boudoir.” 

To my surprise, Ida behaved herself. No suggestive comments, and no touchy. She swept over to an empty corner and perched there with her arms crossed loosely in front of her. 

The bedroom was surprisingly modest to the eye. A lot of matching oak furniture, original hardwoods, and the scent of a well-cared for rug. Someone had tucked the linens so tight to the bed it looked like they’d wanted to strangle the mattress.

Ida’s footsteps drew an orchestra of creaks and groans as she stepped to one corner and watched me make my examinations. She pointed out her safe, a dark stained oak chest at the foot of her bed.“The wood is just a facade, of course,” she said. “High quality steel walls and hinges. I emptied it for your examination.”

She knelt down to place a hand on the little combination knob on the side of the chest, then gave me a look. I turned my back, listening as she spun the combination. The safe clicked open and she stepped back. 

I checked for any signs of breakage on the safe, inside and out. No dice. Nice pretty steel walls and sound hinges. Someone had gotten into it with that code. But she knew that already, didn’t she?

“So, Mr. Picker, what do you think?” Ida asked.

I stood from the chest and turned to face her. 

“Really only two valid places to start, ruling out yourself, of course,” I said. 

“How charitable of you,” she replied, a little grin quirking up on her lip, then sliding back down. “Who do you have in mind, might I ask?”

“Your daughter and your…” I reached for the words “man-servant” and “butler” and “footman” and they all felt about a century out of place, even in that house. “... James.” I finished, rather lamely. 

“Oh!” Ida huffed. “I thought, surely you’d mean… but whyever wouldn’t you investigate Lorenzo?”

“Oh, I will,” I replied, “by way of your daughter. But it’d be a bit silly to ignore the only other person with active knowledge of the code.”

“I see,” Ida said, eyes narrowing. I shrugged.
“Mm. Where is he now?”

Ida flashed me a wide smile.

“So, you’ll take the case?”

Ah shit. I forgot that part. Usually do, somehow. Damn thinker’s always two steps ahead of what matters. Stupid way to lose ground before we’d even started negotiations.

“Depends on the price,” I said. “Gotta keep the lights on.” 

She asked me for a number. I told her to make an offer. We stared at each other for a long time. She tapped a finger against her arm. I watched her and waited, planting my feet more comfortably. She glanced at the bed, back to me, then shot a voracious grin my way. I didn’t flinch. I got it now. The ploy. She wanted me uncomfortable and uncertain, on the back foot, jumpy. She wanted me to give her a bargain just to get away from her. Hell, maybe her best or worst case scenario would have included a good lay. I’m not a psychic or a psychologist, I just observe and take guesses like everyone else. We stood like that for one long and uncomfortable minute. 

“Ma’am,” I said, spinning that lilt of “good-bye” into the word. I turned to go. She blurted out a number. Stopped me dead in my tracks. It was a time and a half more than I would have asked. I waited, without turning back.

“And half that again if you can… well if it is Lorenzo… I need you to… Recover the pistols, first and foremost. And. Hm…” She trailed off. I turned, finally and gave her a quizzical look. I hoped she wasn’t going to ask me something incredibly stupid. She had her lower lip bitten as she considered her words.

“Rough him up,” she blurted. “Don’t kill him or even wound him visibly. Just teach him a lesson in humility and warn him off my daughter.”

I glared at her for a long moment. I didn’t love the idea… but I figured… well I hoped it wasn’t him. I already had a strong feeling this was some mother-daughter bullshit. I also figured I could use some colorful language and the threat of hard time to scare the kid pretty good without laying a finger on him. I hated the thought, but cash is cash. I made a quick, internal apology to both Lorenzo and myself, and then said, “For triple the price. And only if he’s the one who thought it up.” 

She nodded. Shit. My fingers flexed of their own accord, dreading the violence. But what can you do? My mind started picturing the highways out of town, planning escape routes for when this stupid decision caught up with me. I snapped it back into the room, into the present.

“Where’s James now?” I asked again, eager to start, eager to wrap the case up and get to the part where I did or didn’t have to threaten some poor kid on some rich old lady’s orders.

“Downstairs, I’m sure, preparing dinner. His quarters are at the other end of the hall. I’ll send him up shortly.”

I nodded, then hesitated. 

“Ma’am, I think it’d be wise to give me a few minutes alone in there,” I said. “I understand you have faith in him, but… all the same…” 

She pursed her lips and stared at me.

“Fine,” she said. “You have fifteen minutes.”

She swept by me and out the door, keeping her distance this time. Her perfume lingered, reminding me to glance around the room for a bottle. No dice. 

I checked my wrist to clock the time. 15 minutes. Call it 14 to be safe. Two rooms to search.

While Ida descended the creaky stairs I crossed her bedroom to the bathroom, floorboards protesting at my unfamiliar weight. Rattling quickly and quietly through her drawers, I found nothing of note. 13 minutes left. I made my way to the closet, a massive walk in, larger than the bathroom. I flicked the light on and got blasted by the glitter and glisten of her formidable. Too many dresses to count and racks of shoes that paraded up and down the walls, all glaring at me for my intrusion. I gave it a glance and cursed, knowing I didn’t have the time to search it all, but a glint of metal on the little shelf by the door caught my eye. A silver jaguar head served as the metal stopper for a short bottle of perfume. My brain clicked things together and placed the scent. The whole house appeared to favor Penhaligon’s line of fine perfumes. Ida and Adelaide both wore it. Maybe even James. 

Satisfied to learn even that, I swept back out of my clients room as quietly as the floorboards allowed, moving down the hall and into James’ room.

Scene 5

James’ bed looked like he’d sewn the blankets to the mattress, just like Ida’s. The rest of the room followed suit: orderly, clean, no belongings left out, not a speck of dust. Where did the man keep his dirty laundry? He had enough room for a dresser and a bed, not cramped but hardly luxuriant. On top of the dresser I spotted a short bottle with a brass ram head for a stopper. “Inimitable,” another of Penhaligon’s finest. Dear Mrs. Beauchene must have wanted her man-person to smell like money. Fun to know. James had just one photo on the wall and one framed piece of art. The art featured a nighttime desert scene with a haunted feel to it: a camel standing alone in a bleak landscape, stars wheeling above, pale blue light snapping at the pack animals clunky hooves. Don’t why it made me shiver. Damn thing just looked cold. Shaking my head I moved to the next frame. A group of men in beige fatigues smiling into the camera with a large brown tank behind them. Iraq, maybe, or Afghanistan. Hard to say. Marines, by the look of them. 

A tiny bathroom adjoined the room. Out of course, I quietly rifled the drawers, checking for the usual: pills, needles, cash. Anything to indicate James had secrets. Nothing doing. Same for the dresser. Everything in this room seemed to have a place, each pair of socks tucked neatly beside the other like bunk mates in their barracks.

I stepped back and looked around again. Noting how the light fell on the bed, that at sunrise a crack in the curtain would let a stream in to wake him. I looked at the photos from the doorway and noticed a little nick in the paint above one of them. Desperately out of place in a room like this. 

I crossed the room and tried to pull the picture off the wall. Wouldn’t budge. I pushed one corner of the painting, thinking it might rotate. Nothing. Next corner. Ahhhh. I got a nice itch of satisfaction as the thing swiveled up and a corner touched the wall where the sheetrock bowed out just a hair. It clicked into place and held. Behind it, a safe flush with the wall, a little number keypad and a fingerprint sensor. The biometrics would likely be for quick access, the code for a backup.

I sighed for the bygone days of locks you could pick with a Bobbin pin and some patience instead of a laptop and password. Or a dismembered finger. Regretfully, I let the picture slide back down. The smiling Marines seemed to mock me now. I found James, standing up straight, with another even taller man leaning on his shoulder. Hm. I scanned the rest of the photo, hoping for a miracle, one of those little breaks that we never seem to get in this gig. 

Cramped handwriting, in the bottom right of the frame, the words “Swift Wolf” and a date. With a resigned sigh, knowing it would never, ever, ever work, I slid the picture up and typed in the date, then the pound sign. 

Brrrr, a red light flashed. 

I glared at the safe, checked my watch. Three minutes to go, getting a bit sticky. Next try would be my last one. That maudlin clutch of defeat nagged at me, especially this close…

On a whim, I pulled out my little notebook, shut my eyes and started reciting the alphabet while counting. 

“21-22-23… 13-14-15… 11-12…6…” I whispered, jotting the final numbers down as I went. 2315126 “w-o-l-f” Shaking my head at myself, I tapped it in.

“Stupid idea…” I whispered just before I hit the pound side again. Green light. Click. Silence. Grinning from ear to ear I pried open the safe door.

One .365 Magnum hand cannon and a box of bullets. In sharpie, on the side of the box a scribble, “Custom Silver tips for Swift Wolf.”

My blood ran cold. Behind I caught sight of a note, folded over and pinned to the back of the shallow safe by the weight of the gun. 

“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” James growled from the doorway behind me. 

Shit.