The Devil and the Detective (2 page)

She started by asking me questions, questions about detective work (how long had I been a detective? what makes someone choose that sort of career?, et cetera), questions about my personal life (was I married? did I live alone?, et cetera), and I answered her questions in an attempt to put her at ease, with the hope that she'd start talking, too. I told her that I lived alone and that I'd never been married. I told her that I'd taken an interest in detective work from a young age – from a young age I'd thought about my future detective work, my cases, my chronicling, my solving, when there was something to be solved. I talked mostly, while she asked the questions, and we drank a few more drinks. Slowly, I started slipping in questions, too: ‘When did you meet your husband?' I asked. ‘Where did you meet him?' I asked. ‘How long were you married?' I asked. ‘What did he do for a living? That is to say, how did he come about his considerable wealth?' She answered the questions as they came – some curtly, some extensively – but she kept asking me questions, too. She said she'd met her now-dead husband, Gerald, six years prior to his death, in a resort town out west, where she'd been working as a ski instructor for about two years. She gave him a lesson, she said, and he invited her out for a drink, after the lesson, and she said sure, she said, and they had a drink at the chalet and she said she found him charming, witty and self-assured. I sat up straighter when she said
self-assured
, then felt embarrassed. She said that he wasn't aggressive, though she knew he wanted to sleep with her. She said, although she'd never dated a man his age, or even kissed a man his age, she felt curious about him, even though he was older. ‘Younger guys get boring,' she said, and I simply nodded. ‘They're selfish and often idiotic,' she said. ‘They guard their time jealously, and then waste it on inanities.' Much of what she said hit a nerve, or at least made me tense up a little. She said that it was nice to have a drink with someone who had his life together – or seemed to – and she was referring to the time she'd first met Gerald, when she had had drinks with him at the ski chalet, after his ski lesson, not to having drinks with me, in the narrowish bar, after her husband's murder. If it was murder, which it of course most likely was. They were married quickly, about four months after they met, in a small chapel in the mountains, outside the resort town where she'd worked. She'd quit her job as soon as they got serious, she said, which was about two weeks after the initial ski lesson. At that time, she said, six years ago, Gerald had just acquired a company that made plastic bottles from recycled materials, a company he sold, shortly after they were married, for a substantial profit. That's what Gerald did, she said: ‘He bought companies that were in trouble, he invested in them, then sold them for profit.'

‘In the six years you two were together, can you tell me some of the companies he owned?'

‘Sure,' she said. ‘But he wouldn't always own the companies outright. Often he'd invest with a group of investors, though sometimes, occasionally, if it was a small company, or a restaurant or something, he'd be the sole investor.'

‘Would the investors he went in with always be the same group of people?'

‘Often, but not always. There were a few, though, whom he worked with often.'

‘I'll need a list of those names.'

‘Sure,' she said.

She told me about the bottle plant, the flour mill, the sawmill, the restaurants, the ice cream cone factory, the tire factory and all the other different types of businesses that Gerald had invested in. He was very rich, she said, richer than he let on – and he didn't live frugally, I thought, from what I'd seen, even though he didn't live in a mansion. It was a nice house, though, a good size, not too big, and the location was excellent. They had two
BMW
s in the driveway, too, but Elaine said Gerald could've easily afforded a fleet of
BMW
s, and I imagined that, a fleet of bmws …

She said, ‘Can I tell you something, Rick?' And I said, ‘Sure, but my name's not Rick.' I told her that the R. in the R. James Detective Agency ad stood for Robert, and Elaine said that she hadn't seen the ad, and that she'd called me Rick because Detective O'Meara did. ‘O'Meara's an asshole,' I said. She agreed. I asked her what she'd wanted to tell me and she started telling me a story that Gerald, her now-dead husband, told her when they met.

They were in the lodge, sitting by a roaring fire, drinking expensive
XO
cognacs. It was snowing outside and getting darker but the snow kept things light. Gerald, after many drinks, while holding Elaine's hand, said to her,
Elaine, I'll tell you something my grandfather told me, shortly before he died of lung cancer. He said to me
, she said he'd said, ‘
Gerald, take what you can get! Don't end life in the negative. You want to outdo your grandfather – and your father – because you want to be in the green, not the red, when all's said and done,
' she said he'd said. Gerald told Elaine that his grandfather had told him that morality's a lie, through and through, and simply an impediment to man's success. Gerald said that he thought his grandfather was harsh but that much of what he'd said was true. ‘
Weak people, people who stand to lose something, try and convince you that it's wrong to do whatever it is that might hurt them,
' she said he'd said. ‘
That's how you know you're a threat, if people tell you that what you do can't be done – that's when you know that you're getting somewhere!
' she said he'd said.

‘Gerald's grandfather, his father, Gerald – they were warriors,' Elaine said, ‘for better or for worse.'

‘For example?' I said.

‘Gerald read people well, for example, and would have nothing to do with them if and when they tried to use him or cheat him. He wouldn't directly confront them, necessarily, but he'd have his revenge. Success. He made a lot of money. Same with his father. Same with his grandfather.
De père en fils
. But Gerald made more money than either of them.'

‘Did you ever see Gerald behave aggressively toward anyone?'

‘Many times,' she said.

‘Tell me about one.'

Elaine said that an old business associate, whom she refused to name, had made a deal, buying a small company, telling the seller that Gerald was in on it – so, trading on Gerald's name, though he had no intention of telling Gerald. Anyway, she said, Gerald knew but played dumb, and then never let that guy in on a deal again, cut him off completely, and made sure others did, too, and basically ruined the man's life. Elaine dabbed at her eyes. The bar was almost empty but no one was pushing us to leave. We kept ordering drinks but Elaine said she didn't want to talk about Gerald anymore, or his business affairs, which weren't that interesting, she said, though he travelled a lot for work. I asked her about her childhood, where she grew up, though she answered only what she wanted to answer. Her maiden name was Jefferies. Elaine Jefferies. She grew up in a small rural town, surrounded by other small rural towns, which together made up quite a large county, a county she didn't get out of much, but while living in said county, she said she covered every square kilometre. She loved the open spaces. She said it was beautiful, especially when the clouds' large shadows drifted across the golden wheat fields. Her childhood was on a farm, though her father worked in town, too, as a pharmacist, and they kept livestock. Her teenage years were wild, she said, a lot of drinking, some drugs, a lot of sex. Her grades were always good, though, and she went on to university, for three years, and received a
BA
. She'd studied history and French. It was nice to get away from home, she said, but she didn't want to go on in school. And then she moved out west, and after two years, she met Gerald Andrews.

‘And you know the rest,' she said.

‘I don't know anything,' I said.

She was beautiful, without a doubt. I didn't want to ask questions about her husband or her former lovers. To some extent, I was jealous of her husband, even though he was dead. I told her we didn't need to talk about case-related stuff anymore. I told her that I realized she must be exhausted. She thanked me. We decided to have one more drink, then call it a night. She must've dropped me off at home. I woke up, on my couch, fully clothed.

2

O
ne thing was clear to me shortly after waking, on my couch, fully clothed: namely, I was in love with Elaine Andrews née Jefferies. I brushed my teeth and gargled mouthwash in an attempt to rid my mouth of the acrid taste of several whiskies. I think I'm in love with Elaine, I thought. And she did drive me home, I thought. For a long time, though, I wondered if I'd tried to kiss her when she'd dropped me off at my apartment; or if I'd invited her up to my place; or if I'd tried to kiss her and she'd accepted, then came up to my place, and I'd passed out on her; or if I'd tried to kiss her and she'd told me to get lost; or if I'd done more than try to kiss her, if I'd in fact told her how I now believed I felt about her – that is to say, if I'd told her that I love her! There was no point in fretting, I thought, I'd know soon enough if I'd behaved badly; after all, she was my client –
she'd
hired
me
– so things would be okay, I thought. After brushing my teeth and gargling mouthwash I drank several glasses of ice water and then looked for Elaine Andrews's number in my wallet but found nothing save a receipt, no money and no number, and I remembered spending the last of my money at the bar, buying the last round of drinks, the last round of neat single malts. It surprised me that I didn't take down a number, a number where I could reach her, her cellphone number, for example. Her cellphone, too, had been sitting on the table, while we drank drink after drink and talked about her now-dead husband, Gerald, their brief courting period, his shady-sounding business dealings, and about her childhood and adolescence, a childhood and adolescence I found myself fantasizing about jealously, picturing the vast open spaces she'd described, the beautiful golden fields of wheat, the sun shining down brightly in the blue sky, with large billowing sun-spiked clouds moving fast over the vast wheat fields, while she had sex with boys in pickups and in said fields, as the clouds' shadows drifted across the golden seas of wheat. Elaine's youth seemed distant from me – distant and exciting and irreproducible. I imagined making love to her in the hayloft of her parents' barn. I imagined making love to her in her parents' farmhouse. I imagined making love to her now, in the back of her
BMW
, as I lay back down on my couch – I couldn't believe I hadn't gotten a number. She was my client, after all; perhaps, I thought, it would've been wise to have taken down a number where she could be reached. I did remember her address, however: 19 Tower Street. It was twenty minutes by taxicab, which wasn't bad. The cab came to $24.45, but I got a receipt, because I'm on a case. Even though I was in love with Elaine Andrews, I thought, I still had to charge for expenses, though I'd of course buy her the odd drink, and perhaps even dinner sometime. I hope she calls today, I thought, while lying on the couch, with my eyes closed, determined to sleep some more, determined to escape my hangover, and then I fell asleep for a few more hours.

When I woke up, I poured some juice, drank several glasses, and then I got into the shower. The washroom filled with steam while I washed and repeated fragments of conversation I'd had with Elaine silently in my head, though occasionally out loud. Elaine still hadn't called. I wondered again why. I must've embarrassed myself, I thought. I must've told her that I love her, I thought, told her that I love her on the day, not the day after or the day after that day, but on the day her husband was found on the couch with a knife in his chest. I exposed my loathsomeness, after several Scotches, to Elaine Andrews, I thought, in all its grotesquerie. ‘What a stupid thing to do,' I said. The water was hot and the washroom filled with steam while I clutched my head under the near-scalding water. She'd told me about her love for her now-dead husband and I responded by saying, ‘I love you,' though she spoke French, so I might've even said something as stupid as ‘
Je t'aime,
' I thought, as I stood under the hot water in the steam-filled washroom while clutching my head. ‘
Je t'aime,
' I said. ‘
Je t'aime, mon amour.
' Though I might not have said anything, I thought. I might've been on my best behaviour, and acted gentlemanly, even though I love her. Perhaps because I love her, I thought, I acted gentlemanly. I thought hard, hoping that I'd behaved gentlemanly, while I finished my shower in the near-scalding water.

‘The phonebook,' I said. I knew her address – 19 Tower Street – so
the phonebook
! (If I didn't drink, I thought, perhaps I'd be a better detective.) Under a small pile of books sat my stack of phonebooks. I searched my most up-to-date phonebook and sure enough, under her name – not Gerald's – was their number. I wrote it down on a yellow Post-it and stuck the note beside the phone. I wondered what I would say. I wondered how to engage her. I wondered if I should begin by apologizing for drinking so much while on a case. I'll tell her I won't drink for the rest of the case, I thought. Until this case is finished, I will no longer drink, though that might be a difficult promise to keep, for it's impossible to know for certain how long a case will go on for; many remain unsolved, as I've said already, and then there's no end … I stared at the number and thought about dialing, and what I'd say, what I'd say to Elaine, when she answered. There's no need to feel embarrassed, I thought. Your job's to solve a case, not to worry about how you're perceived.

I decided to record the conversation for my records. I set up my recording device and tested it before calling Elaine. I called a local florist and asked how much it'd cost to send a bouquet of flowers to 19 Tower Street. The florist, who was a woman, a woman of approximately fifty, I guessed, though I was probably wrong, asked me what kind of bouquet I was looking to send and I said I was looking to spend around twenty dollars. She said, ‘For delivery, you have to spend a minimum of forty dollars.' So I said, ‘Okay, for forty, what could I get?' She asked me what was the occasion and I said I wasn't quite sure and then she asked me if it was for a wedding or a funeral or just because and I hesitated and then said just because. She told me that for forty dollars they'd put together a very lovely bouquet, a mélange, though mainly made up of purple lilies. I said that sounded perfect. She asked me whether I planned to pay with Visa or MasterCard. I told her that I'd call her back re the flowers later and so on and so forth. Then I listened to the playback.

The recording, the recording of the conversation between me and the florist, was crisp and clear and the device worked perfectly, as I'd expected it to, though I wanted to be thorough, so as to make sure. I looked at Elaine's number and although I was nervous – my stomach felt weak and my heart beat quickly – I knew that I must call her and suss out the situation. I needed to know, I thought, where I stood, even if it meant discovering something unpleasant about myself. Before I called, though, I went and poured a large glass of ice water.