Death of a Sunday Writer (5 page)

As far as Lucy could tell, the enterprise was hopeless. She recognised in Trimble one of those people that librarians know all about, the army of Sunday writers whose stories had
really
happened. Until now, Trimble's obsession with horses had not interested her; in fact she was dismayed that a grown man could be so consumed, but she could warm to Trimble the writer for she saw that some of his heroes were among her own, the writers of thrillers about horse-racing (although there was something about Trimble's prose and story line that suggested an older generation of tales than those currently on the best-seller lists — Nat Gould, perhaps — in spite of the dozen or so novels of Dick Francis that had been strewn about the floor by the burglars) and her heart went out to him for wanting to emulate his heroes. He was as romantic about the world of horses as she was about his world.

The file ended with a list of phrases, more titles, and notes for future anecdotes, as well as a series of notes in the form of reminders. Lucy went back to the file directory and found “W\Justice” and called it up. The full title was “Wild Justice” and a glance told her it was the same story as the one in the memoirs, but it began farther back in Yeo's life. Trimble had evidently felt that he had found his subject at last. Lucy returned to the list of files, finding one called “Diary” and tried to retrieve it,
only to be informed by the screen that the file was protected by a code. It was secret. Honour told her to keep it that way even while her curiosity began casting about for the possible code word.

She was interrupted by Peter Tse, come to take her to lunch.

“What else do you have to do?” Tse asked, when they were drinking tea at the end of the meal.

“This afternoon, I'm going to pack up the clothes for the Salvation Army, and see the morgue people for his wallet and things.”

“Then you're going home?”

“For the night. I have someone coming in Longborough. I'll be back tomorrow, though. I might stay around for a few days.”

“Waffor?”

She was not ready to answer yet, not ready to admit to the small riot of desire that had sprung up in her breast, the “what if” concerning the possibility that if Fate existed, then she — Fate — was providing Lucy with a chance to leave the library behind. Lucy reminded herself yet again that no one knew better than she that there was nothing glamorous or exciting about the world of the private detective, and now the rationalisation, honed and polished already, slid smoothly into place: it was surely just that knowledge of the humdrum ordinariness
of the private detective's world that allowed her to consider herself perhaps suited to it? She had already seen enough of her cousin's business to guess that it was marginal at best: perhaps she could make something of it. And along with her desire to take over the business was her awareness that the other seed, the doubt about her cousin's death, was sprouting not far below the soil. Finally, she told herself, becoming a private detective would be a perfect cover to accomodate her real need, the need to move on. David Trimble's business would provide her with the justification, give her a response to all of her Longborough friends who worried about her, and to her daughter who had to be continually reassured that her mother knew what she was doing.

Thus the process had started, but it was not yet far enough advanced to let her declare herself. “I haven't sorted everything out yet,” she said.

“What is there to sort out?”

Impatient, cornered, scrambling for a story, she invented. “David was writing a novel. I thought I would see if there was anything to it.”

Tse burst out laughing. “David? A novel? It would be all about horses. He didn't know anyfing else.”

“It is. Still, I ought to have a good look at it, don't you think?”

“David couldn't write a novel.” Tse roared again.

“Why not? By the way, why do you sometimes say
anyfing
instead of
anything?
Does Mandarin not have the ‘th' sound?”

Tse stopped grinning and didn't answer for several seconds, and Lucy worried that she had delivered, to a Chinese, the greatest possible insult. All she had been trying to do was divert him from the subject of why she
was going to stay around.

“I don't speak Mandarin,” Tse said. “I don't even understand it. Maybe it's because I grew up in Soho, in London. I never knew I had an accent. Nobody ever mentioned it before.”

“It's only sometimes. Just now and then you can hear it. I thought it was interesting, you know the way you have to be born hearing some sounds in order to pronounce them properly. I hope I haven't offended you. We have a girl in the library...”

Tse held up a hand to stop her babbling. “I don't care,” he said. “Let's go back.”

A slim, dark-haired man in his early thirties wearing horn-rimmed glasses was waiting outside the agency door. He looked from Tse to Lucy.

Lucy said, “Can I help you?'

“I was looking for Mr. Trimble.”

“He isn't here any more. I own the agency.”

He looked consideringly from her to Tse. “You work here?” he asked.

Tse said, “I'm the landlord.”

“What happened to Mr. Trimble?”

“He died,” Lucy said. “What can I do for you?”

“You mean you're taking over?”

It was clear that these questions were not seeking urgent answers; they were simply creating a holding action while the man considered the unexpected situation.

Lucy said, “That's right. Can I do anything for you?”

Again, the man considerd her, appraising her rather than the question. He made up his mind, smiling slightly, “Yeah. I think so. I think you'll do fine.”

“Come in, then.” Lucy cut through the slight ‘takecharge' air her landlord was giving off — a look of wanting to protect her. “Thank you, Peter. See you later.” She ushered the stranger in and closed the door on a wondering Tse.

When they were seated, the stranger explained. “I want you to follow my wife on Thursday nights,” he said.

Lucy pretended to consult her diary, recognising this as the point of no return, the point at which she ought to excuse herself. Instead, she said, “I think you'd better explain.” That sounded right. “Follow her where?”

“My wife suffers from agoraphobia.”

“Fear of heights?”

“That's vertigo. Agoraphobia is a fear of open spaces. She hasn't been able to leave the apartment for a year, but I think she's improving. At any rate I've taken her out several times and now I'd like to see if she can manage on her own.”

Old-fashioned common-sense told Lucy that this man should be shown the door, but there didn't seem to be anything in what he was proposing that should make her feel apprehensive. Surely she could follow an agoraphobic around for an hour or two, without a major decision? Perhaps there would be others. She might specialise.

“If she panics, do you want me to bring her home?”

“Don't go near her. Not under any circumstances. She's got to cope on her own. If she panics, she'll come home.”

“Why do you want her followed?”

“Just a precaution. I'd like you to tell me where she goes, and how she seems to be able to manage.” The stranger crossed one leg over the other and laced his hands over his knee in a chatty gesture.

“Do you have a picture of her?”

He was ready for this, reaching into his jacket pocket for a picture taken in profile of a woman with near shoulder-length blonde hair, wearing a green raincoat and a matching rain hat. It was an awkwardly-composed picture, seeming to be a snapshot taken without the subject's permission, and taken inside a room.

“How long will she go out for?”

“From eight until she can't take it any more. Not late, at first.”

“Why don't you follow her? No, I see, if she sees you, it won't be a fair trial.”

“Right. She's got to feel she's on her own.”

“Of course.” Lucy swallowed, and turned to the window. She didn't like the look of her first client — he seemed sly — and she was slightly dismayed to realise that this would probably be the case in the future, more often than not. People who hired private detectives, like people who pursued grudges with the help of lawyers, were likely to be misanthropic, suspicious, unlovely, even if, as was the case here, they were prompted by concern for another. She could not imagine any of the agreeable people she knew having someone watched by a detective. She had imagined that she would in some way be helping people who deserved to be helped; she still hoped that would be the case occasionally, but she guessed that most of the people who hired her would be like this man or worse. After all, the agency was like any other business that dealt with the public; it could not choose to serve only the nice customers. They were in too short supply.

Through the window she saw a bustling Queen Street, a streetscape by a naturalistic painter, Kurelek perhaps, a scene of Chinese greengrocers, dollar stores, cafés, and
clothing shops. On the second floors, she could read advertisements painted on the windows for a travel agency, a firm of lawyers, and an optician. A block away, the pedestrian crosswalk held up traffic so efficiently that the street-cars and automobiles moved more slowly than the cyclists and not much faster than a briskly-walking pedestrian. It wasn't New York or Los Angeles; Queen Street did not look very mean. In fact, it reminded her of a sentimental Hollywood depiction of New York's lower east side in 1910 — but it was a lot more alive and interesting than the view from the basement window of Longborough library.

“All right,” she said.

“Will you do it yourself?”

All my other operatives are busy,
Lucy wanted to say, as she recovered her humour. “I'll do it myself, yes.”

“How much do you charge?”

“Fifty dollars an hour, minimum four hours,” she replied. She had been working on remembering Trimble's hourly rate for several minutes. “Plus expenses.” The man looked prosperous enough. It would be a relief if he said no, anyway.

“What expenses will there be?”

“If she goes to a restaurant I'll have to buy a meal to keep her under surveillance. And there's movie tickets. Eight dollars except on Tuesdays. The first two hundred is payable in advance.”

“I thought it might be. I doubt she'll go to a movie, not at first.” The stranger took out his wallet and counted out ten twenties.

Lucy saw that most of Trimble's income was probably tax-free. She dropped the money into a drawer, the way she had seen it done in movies.

“I'll give you an accounting weekly, with my report.”

“Why don't I just come in each week and you can tell me where she was and what she did?”

“If that's what you want.”

“That's what we'll do, then. Now here are the details...”

Before he left, he agreed to telephone her the next day to confirm that he wanted to go ahead. “We always give clients a chance to change their minds,” Lucy said, hoping Tse wasn't in the corridor, listening. “If you do, you'll get the money back. Now you'd better give me your name.”

“Lindberg,” he said. “James Lindberg.”

She made a note on the cover of a file folder. “Right, Mr. Lindberg. We'll look after you.”

She was over her dismay now, and left breathless by the success of her impersonation, and perspiring, still wondering when she ought to stop. As a student of the genre, she had had no trouble with the initial interview. The scene formed the first chapter of dozens of the books she had read. It was in the next chapter that anything could happen, even though Chapter One was bland enough, and when the stranger phoned tomorrow she should tell him to get another detective. She was too busy. Another little anecdote to entertain The Trog and the librarians. But she knew quite well that her interview with Mr. Lindberg was no impersonation; it was her first day at her new job.

Back in Trimble's apartment to dispose of the clothes and furniture, Lucy was saddened by the paucity of her cousin's worldly goods. A couple of cartons of clothes would go to the janitor, a Salvation Army truck would call, and David would disappear. As far as she knew, there hadn't even been an obituary notice in the paper. She recalled her silly lie of finishing the novel on the computer, and knew that Tse was right. What she had seen could not be turned into anything publishable.

And then she had an impulse, born of the memoir on the computer and of the bits of writing she had done in Longborough, an impulse to commemorate David in some way, to write a little account of his life and what he meant to his friends so that he would not disappear without a trace, like Willy Loman. There was an article there, surely. The
Examiner
might run it, or one of the racing papers. A little essay. She thought about titles. “The Last Race,” she thought; then, more irreverently, “Death of a Bad Bugger.” She would talk to all his cronies. Surely a man's life was worth a thousand words? And as the
scheme came to her, she knew that she had found the answer, the perfect excuse that would let her do what she wanted to do, which was to stay here, and see what happened next.

She postponed telling The Trog until after dinner. She was coming to a decision that she felt The Trog, and everyone, would try to talk her out of because he would no longer be able to count on her being alone in Longborough when he came off a mission.

The presence of The Trog in her life had been Lucy's first proof to herself that she had earned the right to a larger existence than Geoffrey had allowed her. The Trog had arrived one night on her doorstep in the early days of her bed-and-breakfast venture, looking for a room. His name, he said, was Ben Tranter. He was in his early fifties, shortish, bald, brown-headed, with a lot of white teeth set in a broad, short face divided by a large, sharp-edged nose. His car had broken down on Highway 28, and the garage had suggested Lucy's establishment as a good place to stay overnight while they fixed the engine. He asked for dinner, which she advertised that she would provide on request. Usually, she required a few hours' notice in case she didn't feel like offering it, but there was a raffishness and a carefree air about her visitor, as if he was descended from a race of tinkers or gypsies, that intrigued her, made her want to take chances, and he clearly seemed to want to find himself at home here. While he was in the shower, she slipped out and bought a chicken pot pie and some tabouli salad (he looked slightly middle-eastern) from The Moveable Feast, a takeout shop where the cooking was a lot more interesting than hers, and had her instincts about him confirmed when he produced two bottles of wine to drink with the meal.