Left Field Page 2

  She perked up. “You’re a writer? What was it about?”

  “Yes, I do freelance stuff now and then. I haven’t for a while, though, because, well…this one was somewhat…life-changing.” I started to recount it, but she interrupted.

  “I read that! I remember it! Did you really kill that woman?”

  “Yes.” I paused to take a slow slug of bourbon and branch water. “I really killed her.”

  Flora breathed out. “Ohh, that’s sensational!”

  The next day I took the car to my mechanic, who said he could bump out the dent for $250. So I wrote $300 on the check—the extra for my trouble—and cashed it. I got the dent fixed, because I do like a car that’s clean and kept up, old though it might be.

  ----

  A week later my phone rang, and it was Flora. I was instantly apprehensive that she was going to scold me for writing too high of an amount on the check.

  “I’m calling to invite you to lunch tomorrow, Lillian,” she said. “Can you come?”

  Unexpected, but what the hell. “Uh, sure, yeah.”

  “I appreciate the fact that you didn’t try to take advantage of that blank check,” Flora said.

  “Well, I thought about it,” I admitted.

  “Ha! That’s the difference between you and everybody else. You’re an honest woman.”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  “Ha! I might as well be honest in return. We could use your help around here.”

  And that’s how our friendship got going.

  Initially I thought it would be right for me to try to help the Pomeroys, and frankly, they fascinated me. I had in mind hacking back some of the vegetation around their house or putting up smoke detectors or recaulking the bathtubs, but it soon became clear that they needed a different kind of help.

  They didn’t want what they needed; they needed what they wanted.

  This is what I took to doing for them: they’d come up with some weird errand or investigation, and I’d go off and monkey around. Then I’d come back and give them a fascinating report, and Flora would hand me another blank check.

  “You are a marvel,” Flora said at one point. “You have absolutely transformed our lives. I almost cannot even begin to remember what life was like before we met up with you.”

  The first thing I did for them was investigate the neighbor across the street, whom they thought was spying on them. Dr. Rossi had a pair of binoculars on his windowsill, all right, and I hid in an enormous oak tree on the Pomeroy property one morning and watched his place until I saw his hands pick up the binoculars. I watched the guy, a retired psychiatrist, gaze through the binoculars directly at their house.

  The old me would have charged over, pounded on his door, and demanded to know what he was doing.

  Instead I withdrew from my tree, exited through the rear of the property, sauntered down the block, then crossed to his side of the street. As I neared his house, I glanced up and saw Dr. Rossi smiling beneath his binoculars. I stopped and looked at the Pomeroy place to see what the hell he was looking at.

  And there it was: a barn swallow teaching her children to fly. The two babies were huddled on a ledge on the Pomeroys’ second story. The mama flew up and hovered before them, proffering a piece of bug or something from its beak, just out of reach. The little ones flapped madly, reaching for the food. Finding themselves airborne, they flapped back to their perch in a panic. Then she’d swoop by again.

  That was how it was done.

  And the retired head doc was having a ball watching.

  I went inside and told Domenica and Flora about it. They thought that was the sweetest thing, but Flora took to watching him with her binoculars, to make sure he stopped watching as soon as the birds were gone.

  “Do you know what he does in there?” Flora asked me one day. “He dances. He dances by himself.”

  What a neighborhood.

  The Pomeroy women had been starved for friendship and entertainment, and I seemed to provide both.

  I didn’t know how they’d avoided losing their entire fortune to crooks, but I guess their paranoia served them well. In addition to the hedge clippers in the library, their other “security” items included a tire jack at the top of the stairs, a pool cue in the guest bathroom, and a Hamilton Beach electric carving knife plugged into the wall in the front hall. It was my understanding that Flora also carried an offbeat weapon or two in her car, just in case. I had to nudge aside a small sledgehammer when I got in to keep her company on a pizza run one night.

  3

  As far as I could tell, I was the only person the Pomeroys were beginning to trust. I carefully kept my paychecks reasonable, only writing in amounts varying from $250 to a top limit of $850.

  So Flora had dented my car in March, and now it was May, and in Domenica’s throne room over bagels, I slugged down some French roast and cleared my throat.

  Their eyes lit up, and they clasped their hands in identical gestures of pleasure. I knew they wanted it to be exciting.

  Flora said, “The case of the missing Woolf!”

  “Shh,” said her mother.

  “Yes,” I said. “Well, first I had to lay some groundwork. You remember me searching the house, especially the library.”

  “Yes, well, we could have told you that was pointless,” said Flora.

  “Shh,” said Domenica.

  It had taken me hours to search every shelf of that magnificent library on the main floor, trying to see if the volume had simply been reshelved out of order.

  I fingered my bag, where my cargo sat safe, its purple cloth binding warm, its words of wisdom intact. “One must always be methodical,” I chided.

  “Oh, yes, I understand,” said Domenica, happy to be in the hands of a professional.

  “Well, next I checked the neighborhood—you know, one must work in a concentric fashion.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Where did you find it?” interrupted Flora, smoothing her tight-fitting summer linen skirt. She had at least a dozen of them in all colors, this one being a pleasing forest-green print with tan trapezoids. “More important, Mom, who? Who could have gotten in here to get it without us noticing, and when? You haven’t been out of the house in six years.”

  “I’ve stayed in this room. It’s a big house. How would I know what’s going on? Besides, it’s not like you get out all that much. This woman brings us bagels and we act like we’re refugees.”

  Do not make the mistake of thinking the book actually had been stolen. Yes, we were talking about a book, A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf’s 1929 treatise on writing, feminism, and privacy.

  The Pomeroy women, like all proper eccentric recluses, were great readers. That library was awesome. The fact that their collection had stalled just as a major crop of award-winning authors were coming out of MFA school was one of its strengths. That library was so big they hadn’t read everything yet, plus they liked to reread their favorites.

  How they decided the Woolf was missing, I can’t fathom. They were notional and paranoid, great characteristics for clients of investigative services.

  I suspected the book never had existed, or had been mislaid, perhaps years ago. It was a hardcover, they’d said, and Flora thought it was a first edition, which was unlucky because first editions of famous works can be wicked expensive.

  I told them that after I’d scouted libraries and used-book stores in the city, I’d gone farther afield, and spooked around some rare-book dealers elsewhere in the state. “If it had gotten into private hands—” I said.

  “All bets would be off,” interrupted Domenica. “But if a dealer…”

  “Right. I used a computer to scout the national secondary market, and I found it.”

  “Where?”

  “A well-established dealer in Saginaw had it.”

  Flora said, “You didn’t buy it back, did you?”

  “Oh, no. Stolen property. I liberated it.” I told them of my driving up through Flint
, sneaking into the tightly secured bookshop late at night, locating the title, and escaping with it just as the guard dog woke up and came at me, fangs foaming.

  I pulled the book from my bag and handed it to Flora. She opened it to the first flyleaf and gasped. “This is it! Here’s Grandmama’s bookplate!”

  Domenica looked it over. “Yes, that’s the book,” she agreed firmly.

  The two women beamed at me.

  The real story is more interesting. In going through their library, I’d come across a copy of The Deerslayer that had a loose bookplate. Using the blade of my Case knife, I lifted the gummed piece of parchment free and smuggled it out of the house in my wallet.

  The bookplate was the key. A custom art-nouveau woodcut, it depicted a sleepy Hercules holding a book just about to drop from his fingers, with a crescent moon overhead. The lettering below said simply, Pomeroy.

  Based on Flora’s description of the book, I found a reasonable replacement at my favorite bookshop, John King, down by Wayne State. As it turned out, it was a first edition of the US printing, not the original British printing, which set me back only fifty bucks. It had the purple cloth binding Flora remembered, with the amount of wear you might expect on a book from a private library. I took it home, carefully glued in the bookplate, and concocted my story.

  I spun it out pretty well, adding a suspicious local sheriff, a nosy gas-station attendant in Frankenmuth, and a fierce thunderstorm with tornadoes in the vicinity of Birch Run.

  They loved it.

  Flora, obviously, was humoring her mother with all this nonsense, but you could tell she was hungry for company too. Where was somebody to take care of them—maid, cook, butler, friends? They seemed so on their own and so weird, yet they were managing. I understood they had a lawyer who looked after them, to some extent.

  At least the Happy Van checked on Domenica from time to time. This was a roving medical facility that brought routine medical help to the elderly and the homebound.

  Flora was spry enough to drive occasionally—and dangerously—and to do basic cleaning. They were casual about food storage, but c’est la vie.

  Now, as we finished our bagels and coffee, Flora handed me my blank check and said, “Now for your next mission!”

  I looked at her attentively.

  “It’s close to home,” she said.

  “It’s in home,” said Domenica.

  “We believe,” Flora said, “that our house has become haunted.”

  “Really?” I set down my coffee cup.

  Domenica said, “Noises at night. Things happening. Something ominous is going on.” She stretched her legs out in front of her so that the sit-creases disappeared from her skirt, then crossed her ankles. “I can feel it. I feel it in my belly.”

  “Noises from where?” I asked.

  “Above,” said Domenica. “There’s a feeling too. I’ve been disturbed.”

  “Well,” I said, “I could stay over tonight and investigate if that would make you—”

  Flora cut me off. “No, believe me, this is something different.” I looked at her. She got to the point. “I think we need a séance.”

  4

  I sat there thinking I should scale back my work with the Pomeroys. Even though we were friends, maybe I ought to move on.

  Ricky Rosenthal, the editor of the Motor City Journal, had buttonholed me at a Detroit Film Theater screening of The Bicycle Thief and asked when I was going to get back into freelancing for real. That sounded pretty good next to this. The features I’d done for him before had paid well.

  “Just so we’re clear,” said Domenica, pressing hard, “something strange is going on around here. I’m getting warnings.”

  I said, “What kind of—”

  “She’s been hearing things,” broke in Flora, “and I’ve definitely been hearing things, and sometimes I get a cold feeling in different parts of the house.”

  “Well, different parts of this house are cold,” I said. “They’re cold as hell. That back stairway for instance.”

  There was much discussion of the spirit world and what it means in our lives. When I expressed skepticism about séances, Domenica said, “Well then, we’ll have to call Madame Lazonga.”

  I blurted, “Oh, my God.”

  Madame Lazonga was a local psychic who advertised on billboards next to the expressways, guaranteeing health, wealth, and love for any and all who would fork over the cash they should be using to feed their kids. She also did spots on late-night TV. You’d turn it on and there she’d be, turbaned head tossing, eyes glittering as she harangued her listeners to call right now.

  Nothing against psychics in general, but I happened to know that Madame Lazonga had gone up for wire fraud at least twice. God knew how many people she’d scammed. I realized that if I didn’t ease the Pomeroys through this latest obsession, Madame Lazonga would.

  “OK, wait,” I said. “I’ll handle the séance.”

  “Do you know a good psychic?” Domenica asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  ----

  The next night, just after dark, I pounded on the mansion’s front door. Flora answered, looking solemn.

  I said, “This is Apollonia de Alcestis, Countess of Moldovia, late of Dearborn Heights.”

  Flora said, “Welcome. How do you do?” She extended her hand, and my companion bent over and kissed it. Flora looked startled but retained her composure.

  We followed her upstairs to Domenica’s room, where I introduced the countess again, and Flora turned off the lights, and we all gathered around the little parquet table. A green Christmas candle had been placed at its center, and after turning out the lights, Flora lit the candle, releasing a turpentine-like aroma.

  The countess didn’t say much, as planned.

  Domenica was extremely serious. Both she and Flora had put up their hair for the occasion—Domenica’s in a fairly disorganized Gibson girl, while Flora opted for a tight bun.

  Flora said, “Would you care for something to drink?”

  “No, thank you,” I answered, but the countess spoke for the first time.

  “Do you have any Budweiser?” she asked, in a voice that sounded like a rock tumbler just getting going on a job. Life in the palace in Moldovia hadn’t been all that easy perhaps. The countess was a bulky, fiftyish woman with a frank, plain face; high-colored cheeks; and considerable hands and feet. Like the Pomeroys’, her hair was long. Its color was salt-and-pepper, and this evening she wore it in a ponytail tied with a large purple rubber band of the sort grocers use to bunch broccoli. For this occasion she had dressed in a long black robe with flowing sleeves, cinched around the middle with a red silk scarf, so that she looked like some kind of latter-day Jedi. She wore heavy black duty boots beneath her outfit, and a black tactical-style wristwatch peeked from the sleeve of her robe.

  Flora said, “I’m afraid we don’t have any beer, but would you like a glass of wine? I could open a nice Burgundy.”

  “Yes, please,” said the countess, and soon we all held stemmed goblets, filled quite generously.

  I raised my glass. “To solving mysteries.”

  We all toasted agreeably.

  Side note: Wine makes any séance go better.

  The countess took a gulp of the smooth red liquid. “I guess we better get this show on the road.”

  I agreed.

  “So what’s the problem again?” asked the countess.

  Domenica and Flora spoke of the strange sounds at night and the eerie feelings Domenica had been getting.

  “OK, uh…” The countess fell silent and glanced at me.

  “I think the countess needs to get in tune with the world beyond worlds,” I offered.

  “Right,” she grunted.

  I placed my hands on the tabletop, as I had seen done in old movies, and everyone followed suit.

  The countess cleared her throat and closed her eyes.

  The rest of us stared at the candle flame, which wavered in sy
nch with the countess’s heavy exhalations. She spoke. “Anybody hear anything yet?”

  “No,” we all murmured.

  We sat in silence a little longer, and then I said, “Countess, are the spirits saying anything to you?”

  “Uh, yeah, I’m getting some vibes.” She looked up and took another slug of wine.

  I prompted, “Are the spirits happy or unhappy?”

  The countess opened her mouth to answer, but Domenica said, “Shh! Listen!”

  We heard a rustling; then there was a soft thud directly over our heads. My heart jumped, and we all stared at each other with widening eyes.

  Another thud, more rustling, then a little frenzy of sound, in the midst of which a gruff squeaking was heard.

  “That’s no spirits, that’s raccoons!” exclaimed the countess. She got up, hoisted her robe, and drew a large flashlight from an equipment belt hidden beneath. She turned to Flora. “Where’s your attic access, ma’am?”

  Perhaps you have guessed that the countess was neither a countess nor a medium; no, I had scouted among my friends for someone willing to help me out here, and the only one free tonight was Lou.

  Lou, who had once carried a torch for me and saved me from a pair of murderous maniacs—another mother-daughter duo, come to think of it—would do anything for me, all the way up to donning my moth-eaten Wayne State graduation gown and pretending to come from Europe so I could continue to solve the Pomeroys’ problems for them. I’d tried to get her to speak with an accent, but Lou was the least theatrical of all my friends. Lou was purely Lou. She made her living as an animal-control officer for the City of Detroit, and this night she was dressed for work beneath her gown, not having cared to change.

  I suppose a real medium would have leveraged the raccoon sounds into a series of expensive séances-slash-exorcisms, but Lou’s instincts could not be overridden.

  Flora pointed the way, and we left a disappointed Domenica to her wine.

  Lou shed her gown and ascended a small iron ladder bolted into the wall of a storeroom. She shoved open an overhead panel, showering dust and heavier particles on Flora and me. Flora retreated, expressing surprise about the countess’s uniform.