home
It didn't win (no great surprise), but that gave me time to improve
on it somewhat, and here it is, having accumulated one, and only one,
rejection. And, if the reading public likes my PI character, Elmer
Singletree, I'll try to find more cases for him to solve.
The first chapter is given below, and you may print out one copy of
it if you like. However, the material is copyrighted and multiple
copies or distribution is prohibited.
Murder, Singular & Plural
Chapter 1 - The New Client
It was 3 AM. The phone in my Brooklyn apartment rang once and I
picked it up.
"Is Elmer Singletree there?" a woman's voice asked.
"This is Elmer," I said.
"I'd like you to investigate the death of Todd Cooper in Glenellen,
Vermont, last month," she said.
"How far is Glenellen from Brooklyn?" I asked. "Like, is it north,
south, or in the middle of Vermont?"
"North, as in what we call the Northeast Kingdom."
"Geez, Mam, you ought to be looking for someone more local. I'd
cost you a lot more than a local Private Investigator would."
"I'm not shopping price. I'll pay a thousand a week plus expenses
and give a week's notice if I call it quits."
"Now, that's what I mean, Mam," I said. "I'm in the high rent
district here. I'd have to charge three thousand a week plus
expenses."
"Okay. Three thousand a week plus expenses. How soon can you be
here?"
"I've got some things to get squared away. Can't just bug out on
promises I've already made. The best I could do would be to head
up your way about a week from today, and that's if you can get a
two-week retainer to me by then."
"I'll mail the check first thing tomorrow," she said. "Couldn't
you come a little sooner?"
"You said it was a month ago this thing you want investigated
happened?"
"A little more. April 6th to be exact."
"Well, this whole thing sounds awfully interesting to me, and I
don't mean to scare away business, but it's only fair to tell you
that the cops get on target in most foul play cases within the first
month. That's when memories are fresh and clues are hot. I'm good
at this game, maybe even the best, but I don't win 'em all and I
can't guarantee that my best will be good enough. Just be sure you
can live with all that before you write the first check."
"Mr. Singletree," she said, "I'm calling you at this ungodly hour
because your reference said that you never sleep and because I still
lose sleep over Todd's death. I've got to start somewhere. Believe
me, I've given it more than enough thought."
"Yeah, been there, done that," I sympathized. "I'll come up as soon
as I can, maybe less than a week. Who am I talking to?"
"I'm Maria Cooper, Todd's sister."
We exchanged addresses and hung up before I thought to ask her who my
reference had been. Somebody who knew I don't sleep too well, which
meant it had to be somebody who knew me in 'Nam or afterward.
By my standards, it was going to be a high-paying job if she really
did mean what she said. And it sounded like a job with some pizzazz,
not just the routine business personnel checks, insurance
investigations, and cheating marriage partner stuff I had been
getting. But I wasn't going to hold my breath waiting for that first
check. Plans made in the foggy morning hours often disappear in the
sunlight along with the fog.
I went back to reading Volume 14 of my Funk & Wagnalls encyclopedia,
Issrae to Lacca. When you've got insomnia, you'll try anything. And
there was nothing to lose by it. Either I would fall asleep there in
my recliner, or I could become one of those know-it-all guys like
James Bond. There are times when I sleep for several hours at a
stretch, though it always feels like minutes, and I can never choose
those sleeping hours.
Take a sleeping pill, you say? Well, there's the funny thing ---
some part of my conscious mind is afraid to sleep. Something bad
might happen; some enemy might pounce. A light sleeper might react
in time, but a drugged sleeper would be dog food.
And, aside from all that, the VA doctors don't advise using sleeping
pills for chronic insomnia. They claim it doesn't solve the
underlying problem and can lead to dependence.
Watch TV? Naw, tried that. Too many complications. Noise,
commercials, video rental costs. The encyclopedia is dependably
bland, neutral, quiet, and informative. Who knows, I might get to be
a know-it-all who walks away with a million on a TV quiz show.
That's if they don't ask questions about the latest rock bands or
movie stars, of course.
Two days went by, and in comes a $6,000 check from Maria Cooper. I
made sure it was a good one, took two more days to anchor the good
will of my local customers, then began packing my bags.
I figured on enough clothes for one week plus ten days. If the job
lasted more than a week, that would allow a couple of days for the
week's worth of laundry to get done. Then there was the shaving kit,
a fifth of Southern Comfort, a package of tooth picks, and a good
wind-up alarm clock.
Yes, I do need an alarm clock. Call it Murphy's law or a
psychological quirk, but my insomnia is most likely to fail me when
it's time to get up. And my travel experience has taught me not to
rely on any hotel or motel wake-up service. If you wake up early,
the call will come early, while you are in the shower. If you
slumber on, the call will come late, or not at all. Okay, maybe it
isn't that way everywhere and always, but I've been had that way a
few times, and I don't like to be had. And, of course, most places
provide a clock radio that has an alarm feature. They thing they
don't provide is instructions to assure you that you have set the
alarm correctly. Bottom line: if punctuality has any importance to
you, pack a good wind-up alarm clock. No battery failure, power
failure, or human failure other than your own will torpedo your
plans.
Next, I began packing my bag of tricks. There was a small tape
recorder with an assortment of plug-in microphones, one of which
could serve as a phone pick-up, and two disguised as buttons
matching those on the sleeves and front of my sports jacket. There
was a set of lock picks, a .22 caliber Beretta Model 21 Bobcat
automatic, a box of 'long rifle' ammo for the Beretta, a white suit,
a green suit, several neckties, a straw hat, a cloth hat, a baseball
cap, and three types of prescription glasses; wire-rimmed with clear
and dark glass, and horn-rimmed with clear glass. Mostly, I wear
contact lenses, but glasses can be useful props for role playing;
horn-rimmed for studious, wire-rimmed for the banker look, and dark
lenses for mysterious or threatening.
That Beretta automatic is the only gun I own. I seldom carry it, and
I hardly ever want to be obvious about it when I do, which is why I
chose a gun that's less than five inches long, weighs less than a
pound, and fits in any pocket. It may not be terribly accurate, but
it can spit out seven bullets in a loud and rapid manner intended to
scare the bad guys away rather than ending their day. That being said
though, the .22 caliber long rifle ammo it takes has earned a deadly
reputation. I would not, personally, want to be hit by that thing.
And the strange clothes in my bag of tricks are a sort of fail-safe
disguise. If you disguise yourself with hair dye, a wig, false
mustache, or facial putty, and get caught at it, there's no doubt
that you intended to deceive. But, if you put on the sort of clothes
you 'never' wear, and still get recognized, the one who recognized
you still isn't sure what you're up to. Thus, I 'never' wear white
or green suits, a necktie, or hat, except when I'd rather not be
recognized, and the seldom-used glasses help too. From a modest
distance, it works quite well, especially when coupled with an
off-beat walking gait, and I haven't been caught at it yet.
Having checked out the ways I might get to Glenellen, Vermont, I had
decided to take a bus to Saint Johnsbury, then rent a car for the
duration of my stay in the Northeast Kingdom.
Rented cars are handy in my trade because the in-state license plates
don't attract attention and also because I can switch rentals to help
avoid recognition. The big reason I left my own car parked in
Brooklyn though, is rather ironic; I usually can't drive more than an
hour or two at a time without serious risk of falling asleep. The
good old American steel womb on wheels. It's the one place on Earth
my psyche feels entirely safe and willing to succumb to sleep. If I
were a rich guy, I could cure my insomnia easily by hiring a
chauffeur to drive me around all night. As it is, the one place I
can sleep best is the one place I dare not sleep.
Now it was time to phone Maria Cooper to let her know I was coming
and reassure myself that she wasn't about to change her mind. "Hi,"
I said, "This is Elmer Singletree. I'm just calling to let you know
I'm starting for Glenellen early tomorrow and should be there by five
in the afternoon."
"Oh, good," she said. "I'm looking forward to meeting you. Maybe we
could go out to supper?"
"Glad to hear you say that, Mam," I said. "Eating alone isn't my
favorite thing. I'll give you a call when I get there. Can you
recommend a motel for my stay? It doesn't have to be upscale. Just
clean and basic. Maybe some place with weekly rates?"
"The choice is good at this time of the year," she said. "Space is
tight and expensive in fall foliage season and deer season, but quite
reasonable now. Try the Kingdom Motel, and if that doesn't work out,
try the Maple Leaf Motel. They're both good."
She gave me the phone numbers and we said our goodbyes. Good. No
hesitation in her voice. I called the Kingdom Motel and agreed to a
weekly rate. Then I called information and got the numbers for the
car rental companies in Saint Johnsbury. Ten minutes later, I was
signed up for a four-door stick shift Ford Escort. I prefer a stick
shift for country driving, especially in hilly places. And the stick
shift has the added attraction of being less attractive to most
thieves.
Early the next morning, a taxi whisked me over to the Port Authority
in Manhattan. Normally, our taxi drivers are masters of every known
excuse for prolonging a trip, but the joy of open streets on a Sunday
morning overwhelmed this driver, and his time might have made the
Guiness Book of Records if we'd had suitable witnesses.
I watched carefully as the bus driver stowed my bags in the luggage
compartment, then I climbed aboard. The first three hours was along
a highly populated corridor of four-lane highways up through
Hartford, Connecticut, and Springfield, Massachusetts. I thought
briefly of Vermont's Private Investigator regulations and my decision
not to apply for a temporary Vermont PI license. As the employee
exclusively of one employer who was not a private detective agency,
and in connection with the affairs of that employer only, I was
exempt from licensing requirements. Maybe something would come up
later that would make me wish I had paid the fee and gotten a
sixty-day license, but right now it looked like that would be a waste
of money. Soon, the trobbing engine lulled me into blissful sleep,
where I remained until the first rest stop, where I had to change
buses.
I got off, used the facilities, and had a cup of coffee. Yes, coffee!
It's an old habit from long ago. The insomnia is no worse for it
that I can tell, so why give it up?
Assured that my luggage had been transferred to the new bus, I got
on, and was sound asleep again ten minutes after we hit the road.
One more brief rest stop wake-up, and I slept the rest of the way to
Saint Johnsbury, through some of the most beautiful country in the
world, I'm told. It was enough sleep to reassure me that I could
stay awake for the drive to Glenellen.
There was the usual quibble with the car rental lady about insurance.
She said, yes, my platinum credit card seemed to provide some
insurance, but her company couldn't rely on that. And she said, yes,
my personal liability insurance might cover me, but how could she be
sure of that? That's where I had her. I showed her the policy,
which I had brought along for the purpose, explained the relevant
clauses, and invited her to phone my insurance company. Then she
conceded that she could let me forego their wonderful policy if I
chose to take that risk. I did so choose, and checked the car
carefully for pre-existing damage. As I may have mentioned, I don't
like to be had.
Heading north out of Saint Johnsbury, I spotted a hitchhiker. A tall
old beanpole with a suitcase. He looked tired and very much in need
of a ride. The only way I could have passed him by would have been
if I had a personal rule, hard and fast, engraved in stone, never to
pick up hitchhikers. I had no such rule, so I pulled over and
stopped. As a matter of fact, I sometimes find it useful to pick up
hitchhikers. They add tension. Suddenly, the car loses its ability
to lull me to sleep.
"Oh, man, you're a lifesaver," the old guy said, climbing in and
hauling his suitcase onto his lap. "I don't know that I've ever been
so tired in my life."
"Glad to help," I said. "Where are you headed?"
"Glenellen. I've got an aunt up there. You from Glenellen?"
"No. That's where I'm headed, but it's just a business trip."
"I'm Stanley Stackpole. Do you know any Stackpoles?"
"No, I guess not," I said, squelching a smile over my thinking he was
a beanpole when he was really a Stackpole. "Is your aunt expecting
you?"
"Naw. We've been out of touch for years. But she's one of those
people who stays put. Not like me. I've been real foot-loose.
Traveled all over. Lots of people in Glenellen will know my aunt.
Sara Duncan's her name. Do you know any Duncans?"
"I might have, years ago and a long way off," I said. "Duncan's a
fairly common name. Scotch origin, I think. Do you have an address
for your aunt?"
"Naw. Lost that a long time back. Guess I'd of written to her if I
hadn't. Trouble is, I moved so much myself that I hardly ever had an
address for her to write back to."
"Well, Glenellen's a small place. Like as not, you'll luck out and
find your aunt."
A moment later I glanced at my passenger and discovered that he'd
fallen asleep. Well, he'd told the truth about being tired. And he
was serving the purpose of keeping me awake very well. A few more
glances at him told me he was probably telling the truth about hardly
ever having an address. A homeless type for sure. Battered
suitcase. Clothing to match. Two-day beard stubble.
The Kingdom Motel was on the main highway just outside of Glenellen,
but I passed it by, went into Glenellen, and stopped within sight of
a restaurant that seemed to be open. Coming to a stop, I fished a
ten-dollar bill from my wallet, then shook Mr. Stackpole awake. "This
is Glenellen," I said. "There's a restaurant there. Maybe they can
tell you where to find Sara Duncan."
"Oh! Yeah! Sorry I fell asleep on you!" he said. "Glenellen, huh?"
"Sure is," I said. "Look, buddy, no offense, but I've got a ten-spot
here for you. I can't join you for supper, but I'd appreciate it if
you'd have supper on me. Okay?"
"I am kinda short on cash today," he said. "I could return the favor
in a day or two, if you're going to be around."
"That's possible," I said. "Good luck in finding your aunt."
He opened the door, got out, and hefted his suitcase again. "Thanks
again. You're a real lifesaver," he said, and closed the door. I
pulled away and saw him trudge toward the restaurant in the rear view
mirror. It wasn't a bad deal, I figured. Ten dollars for stay-awake
insurance.
I found my way back to the Kingdom Motel, checked in, picked up some
local maps, and went for a ten-minute walk to clear my mind and bones
of travel weariness. Time to call Maria Cooper. "Hi. This is Elmer
Singletree. I'm in Glenellen now. When's a good time to meet?"
Mamma Mia's Family Restaurant at 6:30 she said, and I agreed. It was
very informal, she said, so I said I'd be standing by a dark blue
Ford Escort, wearing a shirt with green and white vertical stripes.
She was fifteen minutes late, but I sort of expected it. A lot of my
clients like to show who's the boss. I braced myself for an
onslaught of orders, conditions, and rules that never came.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, the expression and tone confirming the
words.
By the time we were seated, I knew several things about her that she
didn't have to tell me. The floral print dress with high neck line
and skirt below the knees said a lot. She expected me to get the
restaurant door for her. The low-backed booths and abundance of kids
in the place would squelch any romantic preconceptions on my part or
from any of her friends who might see us. Not that I had any
romantic notions, mind you, though she was easy to look at. Close to
thirty, give or take a few years. Trim, but not skinny. Wore her
auburn hair long and out-of-style, but it looked good on her.
We got the menu stuff out of the way before I asked, "Can you talk
about what happened to Todd now?"
"It's still difficult," she said, taking an envelope from her purse
and handing it over. "You can start by reading these."
The envelope contained an obituary and other clippings from two
newspapers describing the accidental death of Todd Cooper. He had
been working alone at night in the garage at Data Snappers, the
business he and Paul Singer owned in partnership. Evidently not a
terribly prosperous business, since he was patching the exhaust
system on the company car so he could use it for a business trip the
next day. He had been under it when the jack failed and the car came
down on him. Death by crushing and asphyxiation. When he didn't
come home or answer the phone, his wife called Paul Singer's house
and Paul had found him. The coroner pronounced him dead at the
scene. No reason to suspect foul play according to the coroner and
the police.
"Obviously, you don't think it was an accident," I said. "Why not?"
"Do you ever work under your own car?" she asked.
"Yeah, sort of like Todd did, making temporary patches to get me by
until it could be done right. But, I'll tell you, Mam, I never trust
just one jack. Always, I have something else under there to catch
the car in case the jack fails. Is that what you're getting at?
Would Todd have done that too?"
"Not necessarily," she admitted. "But the jack didn't slip or tip.
It was one of those little hydraulic jacks with steel wheels and it
was on a flat concrete floor. Have you used that kind of jack?"
"Sure," I said. "They have a little valve you close before you pump
it up to raise the car. Then you open the valve to lower the car
again."
"Well, when Paul found Todd, he pumped up the jack right away to
raise the car and get Todd out. He left the car up on the jack and
it was still there the next morning. That jack didn't fail."
"Every car has places where you should or shouldn't try to lift it
with a jack," I said. "Maybe Todd didn't have it in the right
place?"
"Paul is sure he didn't try to move the jack. Just pumped it up."
"The way you say that implies that there's something Paul isn't sure
of. Let me guess; Paul isn't sure if he had to close the valve on
the jack before he pumped it up?"
"At first he said no, then he thought maybe he did. In the end, he
just wasn't sure either way."
"Yeah. I can picture the situation," I said. "In the rush to raise
the car, a guy familiar with the jack would probably go through the
motions of closing the valve and not remember whether it had needed
closing or not.
"How about the door to the garage? Did Paul find it locked or
unlocked?"
"Unlocked. He's sure of that."
"So, in theory, at least, a killer could have walked in, spotted Todd
under the car and released the jack. Who knew that Todd would be
there that night?"
"Todd's wife knew, and Paul knew. I'm not sure that anyone else did,
but it's possible. It wasn't terribly unusual for Todd or Paul to be
there in the evening, though they'd usually be doing computer work,
not car work."
The waitress brought our order then, giving me a moment to think
before I said, "The valve on that jack ought to be taken apart and
examined. If it's the kind that has a little steel ball in it, there
might be a scratch on one side of the ball that would cause it to
leak or not, depending on which way the ball happened to be facing."
"Yes," she agreed. "They weren't going to do that, but I insisted.
There was nothing wrong with the valve. I also insisted that the
police photographer get under the car and take pictures where the
jack was holding the car. They would show if the jack had slipped,
and they show no such thing."
"Good thinking!" I said. "It sounds as if you were convinced it was
no accident from the very beginning and the police thought
otherwise."
"True. That's exactly how it was. Still is. I think murder, the
police think accident."
"I get the feeling there's more to your conviction than the jack's
testimony. Do you have a suspect and motive in mind?"
"Yes,.....and no. There was a big insurance policy. Being a
partnership, Data Snappers had term insurance to cover the loss of
either partner. Paul Singer got the whole company, free and clear.
Todd's wife got $200,000, and I got my $50,000 loan to the company
paid off. Personally, I don't suspect Paul Singer or Todd's wife
any more than I suspect myself.
"Todd and Paul were in the computer services business. Most of the
real value of the company was inside their heads, and the two of them
together were far more effective than either one separately could
ever be. For Paul, the insurance doesn't cover the full value of the
loss. It was a left hand, right hand thing. Lose either hand and
you never entirely compensate for it.
"As for Todd's wife; no way. They have two young children. It's been
devastating for her. She's going to move back to Pennsylvania,
taking my niece and nephew with her. It's blowing a big hole in my
life; they're all the family I've got left." I got the instant
feeling that that line of thought could pull the plug on a big
reservoir of tears, so I headed it off. "Okay, no real motives,
there," I said. "But things can happen in the computer business.
It's the information business and some kinds of info are very
valuable. You don't suppose Paul or Todd or both of them together
stumbled onto something that somebody wanted to retrieve or squelch?"
"I hadn't considered that," she admitted. "I work for Data Snappers
as a secretary and I've never seen anything I'd consider sinister,
scandalous, or outlandishly valuable. Most customers expect
discretion or demand confidentiality, but that's routine business
protocol. I'll give it some thought, but I don't think it's very
likely."
"You do suspect someone though," I said. "All my instincts tell me
that. You do suspect someone."
"Maybe."
"Who?"
"It's not a provable thing," she said. "I've sort of convinced
myself, but that's not good enough. I intend to keep it to myself
and see if you come up with the same suspect."
"That's the expensive way to do it," I said. "Most likely, I could
come up with proof or disproof much sooner if I start with the name
of your suspect."
"This is a small town, Mr. Singletree," she said. "Its memory is
very long. If a person is suspected of a crime, then proven
innocent, that person remains forever the person who was once
suspected of a crime. The stigma never entirely wears off. That
gives me the power to destroy a reputation, but not the power to
restore it later if I'm proven wrong."
"I can be very discrete, Mrs. Cooper," I promised. "No one need
ever know we suspected this individual."
"You underestimate the local grapevine. And it's Miss Cooper."
"So, time is more expendable than the suspect's reputation," I
mused, not having missed the correction about marital status. "I
take it, then, that the suspect isn't likely to kill anyone else
in the immediate future?"
"I don't know."
"Be careful, Mam. If your suspicion is on the money and the suspect
realizes it, you could be his or her next target."
"It's a double-edged sword," she said. "If my suspicion were
stronger, I might stalk him. In a sense, I'm doing that by hiring
you."
"Ah! Him! That narrows it down some," I said, tweaking a shocked
frown from Miss Cooper. She obviously hadn't intended to tell me
even that much.
"How quietly do you want me to go about this?" I asked. "Can I
identify myself as a PI and tell the police or other people that I'm
investigating Todd's death for you, or would you rather I say I'm
doing it for the insurance company, or adopt some other cover
entirely?"
"Tell it like it is," she said. "Paul Singer, his wife, and Todd's
wife know what I'm up to. Beating the bushes just might flush out
my suspect or someone else."
Despite her kitten-soft voice, I was beginning to see the lioness in
Maria Cooper. She really was stalking this suspect of hers.
"How did you happen to choose me?" I asked. "I don't advertise this
far out."
"Your being from Brooklyn helps. I wanted an out-of-towner. To you,
Glenellen is going to seem like a dead little town waiting to be
buried. Now you're stuck here with nothing to do but work on this
one case. Aside from that, your war buddy, Frank Norton, who owns
Norton's Diner along the main road, heard from another buddy that you
were in the PI trade. He said you'd be good at that."
"Norton! Geez, I lost touch with him! Doing okay, is he?"
She filled me in on what she knew of Norton and that about wrapped up
the meeting and the meal. As we left, I said, "I'll drop by Data
Snappers sometime tomorrow afternoon. Will you be there?"
"Five days a week, eight to five, minus lunch hour. I'm not a slave
to the business the way Paul is and Todd was."
The way it was, I heard of a Private Investigator novel writing contest
and I heard of it just three months short of the submission deadline.
That's ordinarily a fantastically short time in which to write a novel,
but, the plot for this one had been kicking around in my mind for more
than a year. At the time, I was "at liberty" as actors say when
they're out of work. And this particular contest was what I think of
as sincerely kind to authors. By that, I mean that there was no entry
fee of any kind. (I gave up submitting to contests that have an entry
fee high enough to support the entire cost of the contest, including
prizes. I suspect that some magazines get a high percentage of their
fiction content free by running ongoing contests having entry fees.)
So I gave it a shot as a full-time three-month project and did submit
it just under the deadline wire.