The Man Who Tried to Get Away

  “So you know Mr. and Mrs. Altar? You’ve seen their mystery camps before?”

  His shrug was eloquent without actually shedding any light on the subject.

  “What are they like?” I didn’t care. I was just trying to survive. “How do the camps go? What do you think of all this?”

  He fixed me with his simpleminded-cousin gaze. Under his mustache, his mouth looked like he’d never smiled in his life. “Since I’m working here,” he said distinctly, “everybody who comes is crazy. I pay no attention.”

  He left to finish distributing luggage among the guests.

  Crazy. Sure. Including me. I slipped off my sheepskin and draped it over my suitcase. Then I lowered my pains into a particularly flimsy rocker and tried to imagine how I could endure being here for an entire week. Cut off from Ginny. Left alone to watch her while she looked for love or at least excitement elsewhere.

  Fortunately I was still numb enough to function when she knocked on my door and walked into the room. Her eyes held a fighting gleam, and she didn’t bother to ask how I was doing. Before I could muster what courage or anger I had left, she said sharply, “Come on, Brew. I want to show you something.”

  When she issues orders like that, I obey. No matter what. Trying to conserve my physical resources, I got up slowly—but I got up.

  She strode out of the room. I followed.

  Ahead of me and pulling away, she went down the hall to the den, then veered off toward the dining room.

  When I caught up with her, she was standing in front of the gun cases.

  All the guns were still there.

  For some reason, my eye caught on a .22 rimfire Winchester with a pump action that looked like a brand-new design pretending to be old. And over on the other wall hung a by-God varmint pistol, one of the best—a Kimber Predator with bolt action and a scope sight.

  More for completeness than to satisfy my curiosity, I touched the latches on the cases again. Still open. The drawers under the cases still held ammunition, neatly arranged so that the loads for each weapon were directly below it.

  After a moment I realized that I was whistling softly through my teeth. I didn’t really care about the danger. I was just grateful for the distraction.

  Ginny didn’t look at me. “What do you think?” she asked quietly.

  “I think,” I replied profoundly, “one of us is going to have to have a talk with Rock. Or Buffy.” I kept my voice down as well. “Or both.”

  “I know that, you idiot,” she rasped. “I meant, what do you think we should do about the guns? Take them ourselves? Make Reeson lock the cases and give us the keys? How far should we push this?”

  “That’s what I meant, too.” I didn’t like being called an idiot, but I was in no mood to object. “Whatever happens, it has to come from the Altars. And Reeson has to do it. If we intervene ourselves, we’ll blow our cover. Which will make dear sweet Buffy furious. She’ll fire us. Then we won’t have anywhere to go except back into town.”

  Into el Señor’s range of fire.

  Now Ginny looked at me. She was furious herself, but when I didn’t drop my eyes, she twisted her mouth into something that might’ve been intended as a smile. Leaning close to me, she whispered, “God, I hate it when you’re right.”

  With a flash of her skirt, she stalked away in search of Mr. or Mrs. Altar.

  Again I followed her.

  She damn near collided with Buffy as Mrs. Altar came through one of the doorways with Sam and Queenie Drayton, Joseph Hardhouse, and Catherine Reverie.

  “Ah, Ginny, Brew.” Buffy wore a smile so bright you could’ve used it to read by. “We were just going to take a walk around the grounds—the ‘policies’ of the Lodge, as they say in those wonderful old British novels.

  “Will you join us?”

  “Can you wait a minute?” Ginny countered. The change in her voice astonished me. I’d expected assertiveness—take-charge Fistoulari in full cry. Her professional integrity was at issue. But instead she sounded positively amiable. “Brew and I have a problem. We need to talk to you.”

  “Oh, not right now,” Buffy protested with a girlish pout. “We had our hearts set on a walk. Freshen our appetites for dinner. Isn’t that right?” she asked her companions.

  None of them contradicted her, although Sam muttered something that could’ve meant anything, and Queenie seemed to be stifling a secret laugh.

  “Tell you what,” Buffy rushed on. “Rock and I’ll make time for a quiet chat after dinner. I’m sure we’ll be able to straighten everything out.”

  Which indicated that she knew what Ginny wanted to talk to her about.

  Ginny acquiesced gracefully. Another surprise. “That’ll be fine,” she said with no hint of irritation. “Maybe I’ll come on that walk with you after all.”

  Queenie looked up at me. Under other circumstances, I could’ve drowned in her dark eyes. Her voice was like music as she asked, “What about you, Brew?”

  But I was already floundering. I shook my head stupidly.

  She smiled and shrugged, and Buffy led her party toward the front door. Cat Reverie clung to Hardhouse’s arm. The way she tucked her hip against his thigh gave me the impression that walking wasn’t her preferred form of exercise.

  Ginny accompanied them outside contentedly, as if she’d never been angry in her life.

  Calling “Wait for me,” Simon Abel hurried past to catch up with them. Then they were gone.

  I stared after Ginny’s back for a long time after the door closed. What was going on here? Who was that woman? The Ginny Fistoulari I knew wouldn’t have taken no for an answer from a Sherman tank. Not where her job was concerned. She would’ve insisted on a private conversation. What made her so easy to get along with all of a sudden?

  Hardhouse, that was the answer. She’d swallowed her irritation and assertiveness for his sake. No, worse than that. Her determination had evaporated as soon as she saw him.

  She was gone. Just like that.

  I needed a drink.

  It would probably make me sick, but at the moment I didn’t care. Now I had a hole in my heart as well as my stomach, and this numbness wasn’t going to last much longer. When it wore off, I would be in serious trouble.

  Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on your point of view—I didn’t get a drink. On my way toward the dining room to locate a liquor cabinet, I met up with Roderick Altar.

  He appeared especially vague, blurred by his lack of interest in his own thoughts. But he didn’t hesitate when he saw me. “Mr. Axbrewder,” he said as if I were what he’d just been thinking about, “I need to talk to you. Is Ms. Fistoulari around? Can you come to the office for a moment?”

  A session with Rock wasn’t what I’d had in mind, but I didn’t dismiss the opportunity. When you’re floundering, you’ll grab hold of anything—which in my case happened to be my job. The client wants talk? The private investigator gives talk. Especially when he also has things to discuss.

  “She’s out,” I explained, “but I’m here. In fact, I was looking for you.” Some lies are easy. “We have a problem.”

  I thought I caught a glimpse of relief on his features. Maybe he didn’t want to face Ginny with what he had to say. “This way,” he muttered with his usual lack of ceremony and walked off in the direction of the office.

  Since yesterday a new stack of papers had appeared on the desk. Guest registration forms, all filled out—probably by Rock. He made himself at home in the big chair behind the desk. I envied him his assurance, but I didn’t argue. Hardship puts grit in your soul. Bracing my stomach in one of the less comfortable chairs, I waited for him to begin. The dullness of his gaze made it hard to think of him as a venture capitalist—or as any other life-form that liked risk.

  But at least he didn’t beat around the bush. Without any of his wife’s social shuck-and-jive, he said, “You noticed the guns.” His eyes didn’t quite meet mine.

  I nodded. “We weren’t amused.”


  Rock sighed. “I wasn’t either. I’ve just had a talk with Art Reeson. Did you meet him yesterday?”

  I nodded again.

  “He spoke to the owners of the lodge yesterday afternoon. I gather this was after you and Ms. Fistoulari told him you wanted the guns locked away. Apparently they refused permission. They say they accumulated their collection at considerable expense, and they’re proud of it. It’s part of the appeal of Deerskin Lodge.

  “They take the position that we knew the guns were here. We could have objected to them before we hired the lodge. In addition, we’ve hired the lodge in the past without objection. Therefore they’re unwilling to ask Reeson to take on the extra effort and inconvenience of easing Ms. Fistoulari’s mind.

  “And yours, of course,” he added as an afterthought.

  “I see,” I said. I wasn’t sure I liked being an afterthought. “And how do you feel about that, Mr. Altar?”

  He shrugged without shifting his eyes, which were focused on the middle of my shirt. “As I told you, I don’t like guns. They’re an unnecessary opportunity for accidents, even a temptation. On the other hand, we’ve never had any trouble. Our guests come here to play at crime, Mr. Axbrewder. Most of them would be horrified to encounter the real thing.” After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “I’ll go further than that. I think most of our guests play at crime in order to defuse their horror of the real thing. They’re afraid of being victimized. Safe danger, safe hunting, create the illusion of invulnerability.”

  Then he spread his hands. “I would prefer to let the matter drop.”

  I was tempted to let myself get involved in a discussion about motivation. But my personal danger seemed too real. I needed to stick to business. So I asked, “What if we don’t?”

  Rock frowned as if he didn’t understand the question.

  “What if Ginny and I don’t agree to let the matter drop? What happens then?”

  That at least brought his gaze up to mine. When he met my eyes, I saw the toughness that had been missing until now—the toughness that had been atrophying from disuse ever since he’d become Buffy’s partner in Murder on Cue, Inc.

  “Then,” he said slowly, “you’ll look like a fool. Whatever you do, the guns will remain where they are. And your identities will be exposed to no purpose. That will significantly reduce your value to us. I doubt that your fees will be worth paying solely for the sake of lowering our insurance rates.”

  “I see,” I said again. “Leave the guns alone or get fired.”

  Rock faced me without blinking. He didn’t like guns. He didn’t even like Murder on Cue. But on this subject he was prepared to back his wife as far as necessary. He couldn’t possibly know that Ginny and I couldn’t afford to be fired right now. As far as he knew, we might take a stand and refuse to budge. He accepted that risk.

  Like it or not, I had to respect him.

  So I tried a different tack. “Mr. Altar, do you have any idea how much trouble Ginny and I’ll be in if those guns are involved in an accident, or even a crime, and the commission holds an inquiry? We’ll be held responsible. We could lose our license.” That is to say, Ginny could lose her license. “We know better than to leave guns like that just sitting around.”

  He shook his head. “I think not. You were hired at the last minute. The circumstances here weren’t under your control.” The way he lowered his eyes suggested that he was trying to negotiate. “If necessary, I’ll testify that you did your best to have the guns locked away.”

  That was slim. The commission already disapproved of Ginny for keeping me on the payroll. We were both under investigation for our run-in with el Señor. Altar’s testimony wasn’t likely to improve our credibility much.

  Nevertheless his offer at least made it possible for us to avoid getting fired. And it gave me something else I wanted.

  An opening.

  While he thought we were still dickering, I asked for the second time, “Tell me, Mr. Altar. How did you happen to choose us for this job?”

  That took him by surprise. He glared up at me. “I’ve already explained that. I—”

  I interrupted him. “You didn’t finish. You didn’t tell me who had the job before we did.”

  He obviously wanted to ask what this had to do with the question of the guns. But he swallowed his curiosity, at least for the moment.

  With a perfectly straight face, he said, “Lawrence Smithsonian and Associates.”

  When he mentioned that name, the bottom fell out.

  “In fact, I’ve known Lawrence for years, at least by reputation. You must know him, too—he’s highly regarded in banking circles around Puerta del Sol. And Murder on Cue has always had a good relationship with his company. We would have used his people as a matter of course, but just two days ago he was forced to pull out. Some sort of professional emergency. He couldn’t tell me the details, but he needed all his people.

  “He gave me your names.”

  Altar said all this blandly, easily. He had no idea what he was doing to me. “Now that I think about it, that’s where I first heard of Fistoulari Investigations. Lawrence assured me that you would be perfect for the job. I trusted his judgment, of course.”

  Lawrence Smithsonian. Ginny called him “fat-ass Smithsonian.” He was the one who got us into trouble with el Señor in the first place. Another recommendation. He’d sent us a client who’d killed one of el Señor’s numbers runners. Which was about as charitable as helping us step in front of a locomotive.

  And now we were here because of him? What the hell was going on?

  Suddenly the whole game had changed. If Smithsonian got us this job, we could be sure of one thing. He did it out of malice.

  And he knew something about it that we didn’t.

  My throat had gone dry. I had to fight to make my voice work. “Did Smithsonian—” I choked, stopped, tried again. “Did your friend Lawrence happen to say why he thought we’d be perfect for this job?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call him a friend.” My reaction clearly baffled Rock. “He’s only an acquaintance. But no.” He consulted his memory. “He didn’t explain. However, he did imply we would be doing him a favor if we took you on. I had the impression he owed you a debt and wanted us to help him repay it.”

  A debt. Oh, right. Absolutely. Smithsonian didn’t owe us a debt. He owed us blood.

  I got to my feet. That nice protective numbness was gone. My head reeled, and a hum filled my ears. For some reason, however, problems like that didn’t seem to affect my balance. I went toward the door almost steadily.

  “Mr. Axbrewder.” Altar must’ve called on resources he hadn’t used for a long time. His voice snapped after me, but softly, softly, just a threat of the whip, not an actual blow. For the first time, he sounded like his nickname was more than a whim of Buffy’s. “What about the guns?”

  I wanted to laugh, but if I’d tried it would’ve come out falsetto with panic. “Don’t worry about the guns. It’s too late now.”

  He wasn’t satisfied. “Will Ms. Fistoulari agree?”

  “It’s too late for both of us.” That was all I cared about. But it wasn’t the answer he wanted. I stopped with my hand on the doorknob and grinned back at him like a banshee. “She’ll leave the guns alone. That’s the least of your problems.”

  Back in my room, I spent the rest of the time before dinner cleaning my .45.

  This was going to be a hell of a vacation.

  6

  My gun was a .45 Glock with enough stopping power to maim an automobile, but it didn’t do me any good. The only actual use I’d ever gotten out of a firearm was shooting my brother. On the other hand, I didn’t spend all that time cleaning it in order to use it. I did it to calm myself down. Basically I’m a tidy soul. I like to clean things. Back in Puerta del Sol, I would’ve scoured Ginny’s apartment. Here I cleaned my .45.

  By the time I was done, I’d reached a decision. I wasn’t going to tell Ginny about Smithsonian.

  It sca
red me spitless, but I was too stubborn to back down.

  After all, why was I here? Not to get away from el Señor—that was Ginny’s reason for bringing me, not my reason for coming. I was here to protect her from el Senor. And to start taking care of myself. So that I wouldn’t be so vulnerable to her.

  Joseph Hardhouse gave me an immediate, tangible reason to desire less vulnerability. As far as I could figure out, the only glue holding me and Ginny together these days was the chemical reaction between her protective instincts and my weakness. Now that she’d put me somewhere safe, at least for a week, the glue had already begun to break down. What did I have to lose by facing Rock’s information on my own?

  As of now, Lawrence Smithsonian was my problem. If Ginny wanted problems, let her think about what she was getting into with Lara’s husband.

  Unfortunately reasoning my way through the puzzle Smithsonian represented wasn’t easy. I had nothing to go on except intuition.

  Well, start from the facts. Lawrence Smithsonian, bless his piggy little heart, had sent us the job that led to Ginny killing our client and me killing Muy Estobal. So what? He wasn’t exactly one of the world’s sweethearts, but he could not have premeditated the whole thing. Even if he’d actively wanted to get us into trouble with el Señor—which by itself was plausible, considering his dislike for Ginny—how could he have known we would take the case? How could he have known how it would turn out? Fat-ass Smithsonian was just nasty, not prescient.

  So why was I scared now? What was the danger? He knew something about this job we didn’t. What, for instance? I had no way to figure that out. Assuming that Ginny and I’d just gotten ourselves into another disaster of his devising—well, what exactly was the disaster? How did I arrive at the conclusion that this camp was anything more than a nursemaid operation? What did I use for evidence?

  Intuition. That’s all.

  And something else. Something that nagged at me and refused to come clear.