Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 136, No. 5. Whole No. 831, November 2010

Loon Life by Brendan DuBois

A writer who so impressed two other great EQMM contributors, Edward D. Hoch and Clark Howard, that each once named him among their favorite short story writers and possibly the best of his generation, Brendan DuBois also continues to be recognized by the field at large. He is currently nominated for a Barry Award for a story that appeared last year in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, “The High House Writer.” The New Hampshire author has more stories coming up in EQMM soon.

The Honda SUV I had been dumped in had a handrail up above the door, to assist elderly passengers in getting in and out, but I’m sure the SUV’s designers would have been shocked to see how it was being used this evening: My hands were in stainless-steel handcuffs looped through the handrail, stretching my arms above me. I also wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, but I wasn’t complaining. Earlier complaints about being cuffed had led to the man sitting behind me placing a 9mm pistol against the base of my skull and saying, “Shut your mouth. Just be glad you’re riding while you’re still breathing.”

The man who was driving had laughed. I hadn’t. Not much to laugh at.

And all because I wanted to write a book.

My escorts had taken me from a summer cottage I’d been renting along Lake Walker, in a remote part of northern New Hampshire. During my time there I had swum a lot, canoed, and learned about the wildlife that lived in and around the lake. But I wasn’t some back-to-nature creature, and coming to Lake Walker hadn’t been an accident. You see, a resident on the northern side of the lake was someone famous — infamous, rather — and after my layoff from the Providence Journal, I’d started researching a book about said resident, to pass the time before I had to find a real job, and maybe, if I was very lucky, to get a book contract before my severance package was exhausted.

But luck hadn’t been with me this summer. My severance package was within a week or two of being depleted, and the rise of the Internet and the decline of newspapers meant nobody was hiring experienced journalists, so now I really was counting on this book project and the infamous resident to save the day.

However, said resident obviously had other ideas.

The SUV’s driver took us along the main dirt road that circled the lake, and despite the uncertainty and the terror of being where I was, I recognized that there was also an element of the ludicrous in it all: Within several yards of me as we drove along were people who were having a barbeque or were watching the Red Sox or playing Scrabble with their grandchildren, and they had no idea that a man was going by in a Honda, handcuffed, with a 9mm pistol pointed at the back of his head.

The motto of this odd state is Live Free or Die. I was hoping the evening would end with me following the first half of this saying, and not the second.

After a while the number of houses and cottages thinned out, and those remaining looked as if they belonged in a pricier neighborhood. I’d only been on the lake for a short while but I’d quickly learned about the conflict between those who liked having small homes and cottages along the lakefront and those who feel there’s nothing wrong with building a three-story mansion and cutting down all the surrounding trees. And the funny thing is, this argument isn’t always between old-timers and newcomers. Sometimes it’s the newcomers who are most adamant about keeping things the way they were, and the old-timers — if they come into some money — who splurge on building something huge and overpriced.

And my destination this evening was the hugest and most overpriced house on Lake Walker.

The driver made a quick turn to the right, where two stone pillars flanked a dirt driveway. A tall, black, wrought-iron fence stretched out on both sides of the pillars, and the gate between the pillars was made of similar iron. From past experience, I knew that there were small signs on the gate — not legible from my present vantage point — that said NO TRESPASSING, NO SOLICITORS, PROPERTY UNDER SURVEILLANCE, but those signs weren’t going to halt my intrepid driver. He pressed a button on the Honda’s dashboard and the gate slid open, and after passing through the gate, another press of the switch closed it up.

And it was like entering some sort of playground or fairyland, for the driveway was now paved and curved up to the left, rising up to a huge home. Beyond a line of trees, a manicured lawn was exposed, and little recessed lights on both sides of the driveway illuminated the way. There were two stone fountains and a couple of statues of lions and cherubs. At the top of the rise of land, the driveway widened into a parking area, just before the large house, which had separate wings on each side, big bay windows, and lots of wood and brickwork. The thought of having to haul all those bricks from halfway across the state made me shake my head.

The Honda came to a stop and the doors were opened. I waited. I let my fingers play a bit with the handle and roof. No escape was possible, of course. These guys — while not very polite — were very good at what they did.

The first guy reached up and undid my cuffs with a twist of a small key, and I got out. I wanted to show these guys how tough I was by not rubbing my wrists and hands, but I couldn’t help myself. But if they had any reaction to my apparent weakness, they didn’t mention it.

The guy with the pistol made a move with his head, looking like a nervous horse trying to shake off a fly. “You go in there. There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”

I looked at him and his companion, dressed alike: khaki slacks, black turtleneck shirts, dark blue blazers, polished shoes. “Really? Just like that?”

The first one shrugged. “Yeah. Just like that. Look, get going, or we’ll drag you in, and the result will be the same, ’cept your clothes and your face will get a little dinged.”

My wrists ached. After a nanosecond of reflection, I decided I had reached the “dinged” limit for the evening.

So I walked up to the large wooden doors, my legs shaking a bit, knowing that the next few minutes would determine if I would leave through these doors on my own two legs, or be carried out, wrapped in plastic. I nervously pressed my fingertips on one door handle, and then the other, and then I opened one carved door and walked in.

Inside was a tiled anteroom, opening up to a large living room with a stone fireplace off to the left. The floor was polished hardwood, and couches and easy chairs and a couple of coffee tables were scattered about. The walls bore mirrors, bookcases, and framed artwork of flowers and landscapes. On the opposite side from the fireplace were French doors that opened to a balcony, which overlooked the lake. I could hear some of the night sounds, and from out on the cold waters of the lake, the haunting wail of a loon. From one of the couches came the next biggest surprise of the evening, when a woman got up and came over to me.

She was in that odd age range that could be twenty-five years in one kind of light, thirty-five in another. She was slender, wearing tight jeans, black low-heeled shoes, and a sleeveless white knit sweater. Her upper arms had the definition of someone who spent a considerable amount of time in the gym, and her black hair was cut close and styled by someone who had never once set foot in New Hampshire. Gold jewelry adorned her wrists and fingers, and she held out one manicured hand to me as she walked over.

“Stuart Rowland,” she said. “So nice to meet you.”

“Sure,” I said, giving her hand a quick squeeze and release. “And you are…?”

She nodded. “Melanie Caprica. I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice. Would you like to sit down?”

I sat down in a cushioned chair with wooden armrests, using both hands to lower myself down. She took a seat across from me on a couch, crossing her legs in what looked to be a practiced move.

I took a deep breath, tried to ease the hammering in my chest. “Excuse me for being dense, but could you repeat what you just said?”

“Repeat what?”

“The part about me seeing you on such short notice. I don’t recall I had a choice in the matter.”

She gave me a pert smile. “I know Alonzo and Pat can be… decisive when they seek to do something for their boss. I apologize if their methods… were disturbing.”

Disturbing. Cute way of saying that, and I decided to let it be for now. The hammering in my chest seemed to slow down. “So who’s their boss? You or Frank Spinnelli?”

The pert smile remained. “We all work for Mr. Spinnelli. Just as you, Mr. Rowland, used to work for the Providence Journal in Rhode Island. And prior to that, a daily newspaper in New Hampshire, and prior to that, a semi-weekly newspaper in Massachusetts. And now you’re unemployed, working on a nonfiction book for which you have no agent or contract, living in a cottage for which you’ve paid five thousand dollars for three months’ rent, and your combined checking and savings account currently totals just over three hundred dollars.”

I scratched at the back of my head, felt a couple of bits of hair come away in my nervous, twisting fingers. “Very thorough.”

“Thank you. That’s what we’re known for.”

“Among other things.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But we’re not here to talk about me, now, are we?”

“Depends,” I said. “If I want to talk about you, will Alonzo and Pat come in and tune me up?”

She held out a hand. “Please. Let’s just keep it quiet and civilized, all right?”

I looked around the house, at the fireplace and the fine furniture. Some civilization. “All right. Go ahead.”

She took a breath. “We know you’re researching a book about Mr. Spinnelli and his life. What I’m hoping is that we can reach some sort of settlement tonight where you agree to drop your book project, and we can all move on with no more meetings like this.”

“Boy,” I said, making my eyes wide. “That sure does sound civilized. And what would happen if I were to say no, and walk out that door?”

A slight shrug. “Nothing,” she said. “You’d be free to go, and I’d ensure that you have a more comfortable ride back to your cottage. But I feel compelled to warn you that while you’ll have a safe and pleasant evening tonight, I can’t guarantee the rest of your days and nights will be as safe and comfortable.”

“Sounds like a threat to me.”

She smiled. Her teeth were very white. “No, not at all… but for one who’s been doing research on Mr. Spinnelli, I’m sure you know he has many loyal friends and supporters. And if some of these loyal friends and supporters get the impression you mean Mr. Spinnelli harm… well, you’re a bright man. I’m sure you can figure out the rest.”

I looked around this fine house once more, and through the open doors of the balcony I again heard the warbling cry of a loon. “Yeah, I can figure out the rest. The usual and customary one-way trip in the trunk of a car or in the hold of a boat. All right, so I’m here. Do you have something to offer me, or do you expect me to drop this book project out of the goodness of my heart?”

Melanie’s pert little smile slipped away and was replaced by a tough businesswoman smile. “No, we’re never in the business of appealing to someone’s good nature, or someone’s goodness. Everyone needs to make a living… even… journalists, or writers. So here’s the offer. You drop the project, agree not to research or write anything about Mr. Spinnelli, and we’ll pay you twenty thousand dollars.”

I shifted in my chair, my hands firm against the armrests. “For someone who supposedly places a high value on Mr. Spinnelli’s privacy, that’s a remarkably low offer.”

She clasped her hands together over one knee. “The average cash advance for a nonfiction book last year was ten thousand dollars. What we’re offering you is twice that average amount. I think that’s quite a fair offer.”

“Certainly,” I said. “But there’re other factors you’re not taking into account.”

“Such as?”

“Such as making a splash, an impact, with one’s first book. The sales and notice of a success would make the next book’s advance that much larger. Not to mention the publicity, the prestige, and the other delights that come from writing a best-selling book. There’s more to life than just money.”

“So it’s been alleged,” she said drily. “But I’ve always found that at the end of the day, it all comes down to cash. So, Mr. Rowland. What can we add to our twenty-thousand-dollar offer to make it more agreeable for you?”

“I’m not sure I can put a figure on that.”

She made a move to get up from the chair. “Then I’m afraid there’s nothing more to say.”

“Wait,” I said. “Look… can I get a drink or something? Being… brought in like this has made me very thirsty. And then we can talk a bit more.”

She stared right at me and I stared right back. Then she made her decision and got up. “Very well. How does ice water sound?”

I was going to make a joke about whether she intended to get the water from the kitchen or just open up a vein in her arm, but I didn’t think Melanie Caprica was in a joking mood.

“That sounds fine,” I said.

She left me alone for a moment, and I got up and walked around. I checked out the French doors to the balcony, some of the artwork — nice framed canvases of landscapes and flowers from a woman artist named Varvara Harmon — and checked out the bookshelves as well. The books were leather-bound and looked like they came from a decorating catalogue that said something like, “For Sale, one leather-bound library, books guaranteed unread, perfect to impress those visitors who move their lips while reading.”

I heard the clatter of footsteps and, scratching my head one more time, returned to my chair. Melanie came back in, holding a wooden tray with one glass of ice water. I picked up the water, nodded my thanks, and drank half of it in one chilly swallow. I put the glass back down on the tray, now sitting before me on a coffee table.

My host — hostess? — seemed irritated. “Do go on, Mr. Rowland. What did you have to say?”

I shrugged. “I have a counteroffer.”

She said, “Name the price, then. Why are you wasting my time?”

“Because the counteroffer doesn’t involve money.”

“What does it involve, then?”

I gave her my best smile, which was a feat, considering where I was and how I had gotten there. “The counteroffer involves you.”

That got her, and I felt a bit of a thrill that she seemed slightly off balance. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What do you mean, it involves me?”

“It involves you, Miss Melanie Caprica, who has been in the employ of Mr. Frank Spinnelli for the past seven years. Prior to that, you went to Suffolk Law School, and before that, you were a summa cum laude graduate of Brown University. And curiously enough, your record prior to entering Brown University was a bit… sketchy. Involving some criminal complaints. Regarding petty larceny, drug possession, unlicensed massage therapy…”

With each sentence I had said, her face had gotten redder and redder, until now, it was scarlet. I again tried my best smile and said, “See? You’re not the only one with impressive research capabilities.”

“That’s it,” she snapped. “That’s enough.”

“But don’t you want to hear more about my counteroffer? I mean, well, excuse me for saying this, but you’re taking this very personally, Miss Caprica, and this is strictly business, is it not? For both parties to come away with the feeling that each has reached a compromise, a deal?”

I suppose I have the good professors at Suffolk Law to thank for what happened next, for she composed herself and said, “All right. Go on. But make it quick.”

I reached over, finished my glass of water, glad to see my hand wasn’t shaking when I put the empty glass down. “Then here’s my offer, and no more time-wasting. I still want to do this book. Mr. Spinnelli has had an… interesting life. The story of men like Mr. Spinnelli often takes place in New Jersey, New York, or Los Angeles. Not quiet little New England. Right there is the hook, Miss Caprica. Something different, something unusual, something that will catch the interest of book publishers.”

“And my part in this?”

I shrugged again. “Work with me. Be a co-author, or an unnamed contributor. You know so many secrets, so many tales… With your assistance, I guarantee the book will be a bestseller and optioned to the movies. An inside view of Mr. Spinnelli and his organization? Instant hit.”

I watched her face carefully, and then she burst out laughing. “You have no idea what you’re asking.”

“I surely do,” I said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have asked it.”

Another shake of her head and another burst of laughter. “You… you… bone-picker. You scribbler. You skimmer of other people’s trash, misery, dirt. You know nothing of loyalty, nothing of serving someone who has helped you out, nothing about me or my way of life.”

I toyed with the empty glass and touched the top of the coffee table. “Then explain it to me.”

She shifted in her seat and said, “My earlier history… true. Nothing I was proud of. But I grew up in a tough neighborhood, with a single mom who did the best she could but which wasn’t enough. So the streets called to me… I answered their call… but before it was too late, Frank Spinnelli took notice of me and straightened me out. I got my GED, got into Brown… and after getting my law degree, I began to repay the many services he provided to me. I’ve had one client during my entire professional career. My savior.”

“Sounds like a king. Or an emperor. Not a criminal thug.”

Her eyes flashed at me. “Again… your ignorance is overwhelming, Mr. Rowland. Mr. Spinnelli represents… represents something that has existed in human society for centuries. A man above society, who lives and exists outside of the normal, who protects his family and friends, and doesn’t depend on society to protect him or them. A man of strength, of vision, of power, a man who—”

I interrupted her. “I once did a story, back in my Providence Journal days, about a little grocery-shop owner, lived in a mixed neighborhood. Once he had it started up and running, two associates of Mr. Spinnelli’s came by to advise him of the nature of that particular neighborhood. That donations had to be made on a weekly basis to a nonexistent local civic-action group. He refused to pay. And then he had to quickly learn how to run a grocery store with two broken arms. So don’t give me any more crap about the noble feudal chief who protects the poor and the struggling. It’s nonsense, and deep inside, you know it.”

“Then I guess our negotiations are over,” she said, standing up. “I’ll have Alonzo and Pat drive you back to your cottage. And after tomorrow… I’d be one prepared man, Mr. Rowland.”

I stood up as well. “Sounds nice, Miss Caprica. For I’m sure you’re one prepared woman.”

Again, that quick puzzled look that pleased me. “You’re speaking in riddles again, Mr. Rowland.”

I held out my hands in a quick gesture. “Then I’ll make this plain and simple.”

“Please do.”

I took a breath. “How much longer do you think you and your two friends can keep the secret hidden?”

“And what secret is that?”

Another breath. “That Mr. Spinnelli is dead.”

My, that certainly got her attention, and her eyes stared at me with such hate and contempt, I had to wonder how she’d ever gotten any customers doing unlicensed masseuse work back in the day. “You… you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I went back to my chair. “I most certainly do. Shall I go on?”

She stood there as if debating whether to stand up and have her two boys toss me out, or let curiosity take control and sit down.

Curiosity, I was pleased to see, won out. She sat down. “Go on. Now, please.”

I said, “Even though I’m no longer with the Journal, I have contacts with a number of law-enforcement types in Providence and elsewhere. And in doing research for my book, I kept on getting the same story, over and over again. That Mr. Spinnelli had dropped out of sight. That he was no longer being seen at his usual haunts, the bars, the social clubs, the restaurants. And that there were grumblings among other… types who move in Mr. Spinnelli’s circle that they were concerned that they hadn’t seen him or heard from him in a while.”

She said quickly, “He’s an old man. He’s not well. Which is why he’s up here.”

I scratched at the back of my head again. “So you say. But I’ve been here for a while, Miss Caprica, doing my research. And any of my former editors would tell you, I’m a bear when it comes to being prepared and doing research. And I’ve contacted every home-health organization within a two-hour drive of this place. Not one of them has a patient on Lake Walker. I’ve kept an eye on this place as well, and I’ve only seen you and your two… men. One of the men, every Thursday, goes out and does the week’s shopping. I’ve seen what he buys, as I’ve stood behind him a couple of times in the checkout line. Enough food for three… and maybe four if you would stretch it, but why would you have to stretch it?”

Her hands were clasped so tight I thought the fancy fingernails would crack. “Anything else?”

“Sure,” I said. “There were two things I caught, when I was brought up here. There are just the three of you. Where are Mr. Spinnelli’s other associates? His relatives? Nieces, nephews, brothers, and sisters? For a sickly man… I’m sure there’d be more here than just the three of you.”

Her hands were still tightly clasped. “You said two things. What was the other?”

I tried to keep my voice low, even, and cool. “I’ve done stories before where I was in the presence of the big boss, whether it was a power company exec or a National Guard general. Every time I did a story like that, there was a sense of urgency in the air… a buzz, if you like, that the head honcho was either in the room or nearby. I didn’t get that feeling from Alonzo or Pat when they brought me here, or from you either. Nothing like that at all. Mr. Spinnelli is not in Providence, he’s not here, and I doubt he’d be in the witness-protection program. Therefore… he’s dead, isn’t he?”

She suddenly stood up. “We’re through here. Done. No more talking.”

Melanie started to turn and I said, “Think twice before you let your anger get ahold of you, Miss Caprica. Before you call in Alonzo and Pat and have them take me for that quote, ride, unquote.”

She looked at me, hands clenched, nostrils flaring. “And what should I think about, you little piece of crap?”

I said, “Think about this. Just so you know, I’ve secured the services of an attorney. Not one with quite the pedigree of you, but good enough. And he’s a former police chief from a town here in New Hampshire, with lots of interesting law-enforcement contacts. And he loves to talk with me… so much that I talk to him once a day, seven days a week. And he has strict instructions, since I’ve been working on this book… A day goes by without my phone call and the police show up here on your doorstep.”

It seemed she was trying very hard to control her voice. “When we have to… we’re quite skilled. There’s no evidence you’ve been here. None.”

“Oh yes, there is,” I said. “Lots of evidence. In the time I’ve been here, Miss Caprica, I’ve made sure to deposit my fingerprints on as many surfaces as possible, here and in the SUV, and I’ve also left some bits of hair, to assist in a DNA analysis down the road, if need be. Maybe you could give the house and the SUV a good cleaning, and then, maybe not. It would just take one fingerprint. So what do you think would happen if I were to disappear and evidence arose that this was the last place I visited? Do you think the cops and the local news media would let that story die? Of course not… and you can be sure that in the process of trying to find me, the news would come out that your boss is dead. So what’s it going to be? Let your emotions take control, or be a cool businesswoman?”

I kept a close eye on her, feeling the hammering in my chest return, knowing how close this was all going to be, wondering if I was going to pull it off, wondering what she would do…

And in another surprise, she sat back down heavily in her chair, buried her face in her hands, and said, “Oh, damn you, why the hell did you feel the need to be a goddamn snoop?”

I wasn’t sure what was going on, but it seemed encouraging. “My nature. And my job, I guess. I’m sure it’s been pretty hard, trying to keep it all together.”

Melanie raised up her head. “You have no idea. No idea at all. We three… we’ve been on a knife edge. The phone calls, the attempted visits, everything else… you have no idea.”

“And how can you keep putting off the phone calls?”

She sighed. “Alonzo… he can do a fair imitation of Mr. Spinnelli on the telephone, when I need him.”

“Why? I mean, what’s the point?”

“The point…” She clasped her hands together, shook her head a couple of times. “The point is… Mr. Spinnelli has enemies waiting for him to falter, fail, or leave. And with those three options, comes one more. Alonzo, Pat, and I would leave the scene, because of our connection to Mr. Spinnelli. And that would be a permanent departure. And when… when… Mr. Spinnelli passed a number of weeks ago, up here in his bedroom, we realized we had to put on a façade, an impression that he’s still running the business. Even though… well, we found a nice spot on the other side of this hill. With a view of the lake. He was a Providence boy, through and through, but he loved this place.”

“But you must have known it couldn’t last.”

She wiped at her eyes. “Day to day. That’s all we were doing. Day to day… until you showed up. You piece of crap, you.”

I thought for a moment, leaned forward in my own chair. “My original offer still stands.”

Another wipe to her eyes. “A book? Are you crazy?”

From outside, another cry from a loon. “Hear that?”

“What? The loon?”

“Yeah, the loon. You know, one other thing I’ve learned up here is that the loon species is hundreds of thousands of years old… and they still live the same. They live on lakes from spring to fall… and then they know it’s time to move on, and they migrate, to live on the ocean during the winter months.”

Another loon cry.

“Miss Caprica, it’s time to move on. You and Alonzo and Pat… work with me on this book, and arrangements can be made… Like I said, I have connections with law enforcement. We both can get what we want: I get a great best-selling book, a start on a new career, and you and your friends, you get a new life, and safety. This is a good deal for the three of you, before a heavily armed crew from Providence comes up here and won’t take no for an answer. But like the loons out there… it’s time.”

She stared at me, and I stared back at her. She wiped at her eyes again and looked over my shoulder, out to the lake, where the loons lived… but only for a while.

I cleared my throat. “Miss Caprica?’

She looked at me. Finally smiled. “Call me Melanie.”

Copyright © 2010 Brendan DuBois