If ol' Honest Abe were alive today, he'd love this tale of blackmail and a certain furry rodent...

Elementary, My Dear Abraham

By BV Lawson

Parker Ireland was cold. Damn mechanic was supposed to fix that broken heater. Eight hundred bucks, still busted. And who ordered snow? At least he didn't need the chains yet. His client had better show up, or he'd bill him for the time anyway, and maybe throw in the cost of the heater for good measure.

He hadn't taken on a blackmail case in a long time, and wasn't all that keen on it, truth be told. And when the client said it had something to do with an art project, he'd almost declined flat out, until the client mentioned he was wealthy and could make it worth Ireland 's time. Okay, so maybe he wasn't big on art, but he did like those little pictures of presidents in his wallet. He was particularly fond of Ben Franklins.

Since this was an art thing, it made sense the client had arranged this meeting at the Andy Warhol Museum . There was a reception involved, so at least he'd get free food, though at something this snooty, it would probably be little fru-fru bites of fish bait on cardboard crackers.

A quick look at his watch told him it was seven o'clock, time to get this show moving. He found a parking space between two Jaguars and made his way into the museum's foyer, where he stopped dead. A costume party. Great. His client forgot to mention that little item.

He gazed across the sea of masks and wigs for said client, who'd told him to look for a man in a tuxedo with a beard, no mustache. As he scanned the room, he noted one, two, no, three different Abraham Lincolns—all with beards, no mustaches, and all dressed in top hats and tuxedos. This evening was just getting better and better.

Someone jostled his elbow, and he turned to find himself eye to eye with a tall furry thing. Beaver? Wrong tail. Prairie dog? Maybe. Then he remembered the date, February 2nd. He said, “I guess you're Punxsutawney Phil, huh? Seen your shadow today?”

Wrong question. Furry Phil had apparently heard that wisecrack one too many times already. “Oh that's real original, you moron.” Then Phil looked Ireland over from head to toe. “So what are you supposed to be, Sam Spade?”

Ireland 's trench coat and favorite fedora may have just come in handy. At least he wouldn't have to bother finding the hatcheck. “Um...” he stammered.

“Or maybe Sam Spade's father?” The groundhog snorted.

Oh well that was just plain rude. All because Ireland had inherited the family gene for prematurely gray hair? Apparently Phil had not only seen his shadow, but gotten up on the wrong side of the hole. Ireland had to hand it to him, though—the furry suit was a perfect disguise. It was impossible to tell who was underneath, although the voice was oddly familiar. He didn't have time to dwell on it, as Phil quickly waddled off. Well, maybe “quickly” was the wrong word.

Ireland sighed. How to find his client? Guess he'd have to mingle and chat up the Lincolns , one by one. The first looked promising. Tall, older, expensive shoes.

“So, Abe, nice party?” As conversation starters went, it was pretty lame. Usually worked, though.

“I'd rather be anywhere else, actually. You'd think a costume party at a museum celebrating Andy Warhol would be lively, but this is as exciting as watching canvas dry.” He looked down at Ireland , no mean feat, since Ireland was six feet himself. “Sam Spade, huh?”

“Apparently. If you don't mind me asking, why are you here, if this is such a yawn of a party, as you say?”

“I'm meeting someone.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, although God knows why she picked this wake. I think she just likes the free booze.”

“She?” So Abraham #1, or Tall Abe as Ireland christened him, wasn't Ireland 's client. “If you're willing to brave such a trial, it must be true love.”

“Not really. We're both involved in projects in need of funding. Lots of funding. And schmoozing is de rigueur at ratfests like this where powerful well-connected people are crawling out of the woodwork.”

“You're an artist, then?”

“You might say. Someone who appreciates the art of making money, any way I can.”

“Any way that's legal, of course?”

Tall Abe smirked, marring his otherwise Lincoln-y countenance. “Depends upon how you define legal. Why don't you ask some of the rich mucky-mucks in this room how they made their money. The usual recipe is a pinch of hard work, a smidgeon of talent, and a heavy dose of creative accounting.”

Ireland raised an eyebrow. “Exactly how...creative have your fundraising efforts been?”

Lincoln shook his head. “Ah-ah-ah. That would be telling.” He waved at a femme fatale dressed like Barbarella heading toward them. “There she is. My partner in crime. Excuse me.”

As Ireland looked at Abe's companion, in her spandex and see-through plastic catsuit, he realized at least Abe's friend would be getting some attention. Two for one she left with more Lincolns—or Ben Franklins—in hand than Abe himself.

One Lincoln down, two to go. Lincoln #2 was about Ireland 's height, although his gaunt face looked even more the part than Lincoln #1's had. He was stretched out in a chair under a Campbell 's Soup-Can painting, his face as red as the can's famous label. One hand held an almost-empty wine glass. He'd apparently gotten an early start on that free booze.

“Mind if I join you?” Ireland said, in his best Sam Spade voice. Didn't hurt to get into the part, after all.

“Knock yourself out.”

Abe #2 might be halfway to la-la land, but his eyes were a piercing dark brown, almost black. His voice had an accent—maybe Russian?—as he mumbled, “Art is for crap, man. A guy paints pictures of cows and soup and makes millions. Maybe I should do a watercolor of the mold in my refrigerator. Bet somebody'd buy it for a chunk of change.” He slouched even further. “You paint any?”

“Nah, I got an F in third-grade art class.”

Abe #2 laughed. “Then you'll fit right in. You know what's funny? If I stole one of these paintings, I'd be thrown in jail. But someone creates artwork a third grader could make—even you I'll bet—and sells it to a gullible public, and suddenly they're a genius. Who's the real bandit, I say? Maybe I'll just paint my own soup cans and say they're Andy Warhol originals. How hard can it be?” He wiped his brow. “Man am I wasted.”

And wasting his time was what Ireland appeared to be doing with Tipsy Abe, who didn't appear to be expecting anything or anyone other than a hangover. “Good luck with that mold idea,” Ireland said, as he left the morose man hunched over his glass.

Ireland recalled the landscape masterpiece he'd drawn for his third-grade teacher, who'd shot him down, saying his work was too unimaginative. He'd gotten his revenge when he spray-painted her car with his VERY imaginative interpretations of things he'd seen in his brother's Playboy . She'd suspected him, but couldn't prove it. At least she'd taught him the fine art of hiding evidence. Heh.

The lights dimmed for a moment and a few women shrieked. Most excitement they'd probably had all evening. The wind must be blowing the snow around. Just what they needed, a power outage.

With a heavy sigh, Ireland made his way over to Abe #3, the shortest of the Lincolns thus far. He was leaning against a wall, one hand in his pocket, looking bored, but when Ireland approached, he didn't seem eager to chat. So this one was Silent Abe. Ireland decided he liked the name Short Abe better. After all, he hoped to actually get the guy to talk.

Ireland pointed to a painting nearby, “Wonder how much that picture's worth?”

Short Abe glanced over at it. “That would set you back about eight hundred thousand. Chump change, really.”

“Are you a collector?”

“More of an appraiser.”

“So you're here tonight to practice your craft?”

“I like to keep an eye on potential investments.” He took in Ireland 's JC Penney clothing and raised an eyebrow. “You're the only Sam Spade I've seen tonight. Effective costume, though. Did you raid the Salvation Army for those?”

For a moment Ireland toyed with the idea of showing the Rail Splitter what a Teeth Splitter could do, but decided Sam Spade should keep his cool. “If you're an appraiser, does that mean you can tell a forgery from the real thing?”

Short Abe became Silent Abe again, not answering for several seconds. “I'm good, but I'm not that good.”

Ireland forged ahead. “I met another Abraham Lincoln tonight, who suggested he make his own Warhol copies and pass them off as originals. Guess that sort of thing happens often.”

Abe shrugged. “I suppose. I don't deal much with forgeries, too much red tape.” He looked over at the buffet with its plates of caviar and sushi. “I'd better get some of that moderate-priced chardonnay before it's all gone. See you around, detective.”

Ireland rubbed his forehead. Three Lincolns down, no luck. But then he spied a tuxedo-clad man in a far corner, with a beard sans mustache, one who was not a Lincoln , hands held in front of him with fingers that clutched and unclutched continuously.

Ireland made his way over. “Are you by any chance waiting for someone?” He prayed to the detective gods in the sky the man would say yes.

The man blinked, slowly. He definitely had that deer-in-the-headlights thing going. “I'm...what? Oh, yes, yes, I am. Waiting for someone, that is.”

“And did you make an appointment with that someone to discuss a certain private business arrangement?”

The man's hands fell to his sides. “Indeed I did. Are you Mr. Ireland , then?”

Ireland nodded, and his client gestured for them to move farther back in the corner. “The name's Laborde, Lionel Laborde. Sorry for all the cloak and dagger, but I think my phone may be tapped. I suppose I should get a cell phone. I'm a bit of a fossil, really.”

“This blackmailer tapped your phone? That's a bit extreme.”

“Maybe not, when there's this much money involved.”

“How much?”

“He's asking for ten million.”

Whoa. Definitely more than chump change. That'd buy what—ten Andy Warhols? Five? “So you called me from a pay phone?”

“Yes. Only way I felt safe.”

“You said you're being blackmailed over an art project. What are we talking about here? Did you buy a stolen Picasso?”

Laborde hesitated. “I'm not sure how much you know about me. Probably not much, as I try to keep a low profile. I'm pretty dull really. Dull and law-abiding. At least, these days I am.”

“But not always so...law-abiding, I take it?”

“I didn't hurt anybody, if that's what you're wondering. I'd never do that. I was just desperate. I made the mistake of going to art school and becoming the stereotypical starving artist while at the same time marrying my wife fairly young and having two kids right away. We got in debt pretty deep, so I needed to do something fast. The only real talent I seemed to have at the time was copying masterpieces. Very good copies, if I say so myself. Couldn't tell them from the originals.”

Hmmm. Drunken Abe had talked about painting forgeries. And Short Abe was an appraiser. Coincidence? “Did you sell them to museums?”

“Oh no, well, that is, not directly. I had someone I worked for, an art dealer. He was the one with the connections, and told me what to paint.”

“How long did this go on?”

“Only for a few years. I guess I made a dozen or so fake masterpieces, and then I got nervous. I'd made enough to get out of debt, so I cut ties with the dealer.”

“He let you go, just like that?”

“Not willingly. I moved the family across the country, went to night school and finally realized although my own artwork might never make me rich, I had a knack for managing other people's money. I'm the president of an investment firm. A successful investment firm.”

“But apparently your past followed you.”

Laborde blinked his eyes several times and for a minute, Ireland thought this rich and powerful man might actually start crying right there in front of him.

Laborde said in almost a whisper, “My wife, a saint, doesn't know about my former, uh, career. My two kids are in exclusive colleges getting exclusive degrees, and I have several corporate and artistic boards depending upon my fundraising skills. I give to a lot of charities, and I think I've paid my dues. But if this got out, it could ruin me.”

“What's the name of this former art dealer you worked with?”

“His name's Alastair Renfroe, but it doesn't matter. His luck eventually ran out, and he died in jail a few years ago.”

“Did Renfroe have a partner or tell anyone else about you?”

“He was a bit of a lone wolf, so I don't think he had a partner. I can't imagine him telling anyone about me. Too risky.”

“Any family?”

“Family? I think there may have been a child, a son, although my memory's a bit hazy. I guess the boy would be about your age now.”

“When was the last time you heard from the blackmailer?”

Laborde's face flushed, and he avoided Ireland 's gaze. “The same day I called you, actually. He told me he'd be here tonight.”

“What? Have you agreed to pay him, then?”

“No, no, not at all. He said he wanted to keep an eye on me. Make sure I didn't call the cops, as he insisted.”

Ireland looked around at the faces of the patrons, some recognizable, many hidden under masks and paint. He'd only talked to three people so far, and all three had talked about forgeries or being desperate for money. If everyone here had similar motives, it was going to be a long night.

By now, Laborde's face had gone through a rainbow of colors and faded to a pale beige. Or was it ecru? Ireland offered to get some coffee, so he made his way to the bar, where he felt someone bump into him. Deja vu. He was toe to toe once more with fuzzy Phil, who'd apparently been sipping more fermented beverages than a groundhog was accustomed to.

The rodent grabbed Ireland 's arm and held on for dear life. “So,” he slurred. “Has Sam Spade caught the culprit yet?”

“I'm working on it,” Ireland deftly removed the furry arm.

“Perhaps I could help. I'm good at solving puzzles. I love puzzles. Here's one for you—guess who I am. Go on, guess.”

“Maybe later, Phil.” An inebriated groundhog was not something he needed right now. Ireland glanced back in Laborde's direction and was less than thrilled to see that Dracula, or a reasonable facsimile, had suddenly cornered Laborde and was shaking his fist at the cowering client. For Pete's sake, what now?

Ireland started back toward Laborde, passing by Short Abe along the way. Abe was plastered against the same wall as before, same hand in the same pocket. And watching Laborde fairly closely, it appeared.

Ireland stopped in front of him. “Still appraising?”

Short Abe grimaced. “Still sleuthing?”

“Yeah, but Sam Spade's Maltese Falcon stays missing.”

“Wasn't the Falcon fake?”

“A forgery, yes. Too bad you don't know more about forgeries. Might come in handy. For spotting the fake Falcon, that is.”

Short Abe stared at Ireland . “You seem to be quite interested in forgeries.”

“I'm learning.”

Did Short Abe's shoulders just tense up a few micro-inches? Abe replied, “Well, Sam Spade, maybe you'll have to teach me, then. I'd love to know what you find out.”

Ireland gave him a bemused smile, then hurried over to rescue Laborde from the Count's clutches. Who knew Dracula had such a high-pitched whiny voice?

“You can't cut that funding, Laborde. We're counting on it to pay our staff salaries next year.”

Laborde had started clutching and unclutching his hands again. “I'm sorry, Richard, but our grant funds have taken a beating. We've got more applicants than ever before, and there's just not enough to go around.”

By now, Dracula had positioned himself so close to Laborde he could literally suck Laborde's blood from his jugular, if so inclined. Ireland set the coffee down and put his hands on Dracula's high-caped shoulders.

“Come along, Count. You can save the bloodletting for later. After all, it's still early, not even midnight yet. And in case you didn't notice, Laborde here has some garlic in his pocket. So shoo.”

Ireland manhandled Dracula over to a group of, what—Barbie dolls? Appropriate enough. It made him wonder how Barbarella was getting on.

Monster vanquished, Ireland returned to his client and offered him the cup of coffee at last. “You're quite popular tonight.”

Laborde chugged his coffee down in three large gulps, barely stopping to breathe in-between. “I think I'm becoming paranoid. The blackmailer is here, and I have no idea who it is. It could be Elvis or the Phantom of the Opera, or even that groundhog over there.”

Although Ireland still felt there was something familiar about the groundhog, he doubted the hammered hamster would be causing his client much of a problem. Ireland nodded his head instead in the direction of Short Abe.

“Don't let that particular fellow over there know you're looking at him, but when you get a chance, take a peek. President Lincoln. Let me know if he looks familiar, beyond the disguise, that is.”

Laborde, already jumpy, wasn't very good at following instructions. He whipped his head around and stared. Ireland rolled his eyes, then followed Laborde's glance. Short Abe was returning the stare.

Laborde turned more of a pearlescent tone. Any whiter and he could pass for Dracula's brother. “Yes, yes, he does look familiar. I think I've seen him recently, without the beard and mole, of course. I'm pretty sure I saw him outside our offices. And again at lunch the other day, at my favorite diner.”

Laborde was sweating now. “Did he say something to you...do you think...?”

And then the lights went out. Black as a tar blanket. Now this is a cliché, Ireland old boy, the detective mused. A few women shrieked again, adding to the effect. Ten seconds turned into thirty, until a minute had passed. The lights flickered back on, but remained dim, making everything look like a sepia print. Okay, it was only a partial blackout, so maybe just a partial cliché.

Sometime during the blackout, Laborde had disappeared. Ireland did a one-eighty and saw his client standing in front of Short Abe near the stairs. The President was packing a gun, or at least wanted Laborde to think he was, the hand in the pocket pointed at the other man.

Ireland silently thanked his doctor who'd ordered him to quit smoking. He may not be an Olympic gold-medal sprinter, but he was in good enough shape to maneuver behind Short Abe in a flash, his own gun pointed through a pocket at Abe's back.

“You might want to rethink this, Abraham. You won't get very far.”

Short Abe just snarled and twisted away toward the stairs, pulling his gun out and firing back at Ireland and Laborde. Shrieks gave way to bona fide screams as people ran away in panic. All except one.

Ireland didn't know groundhogs could move that fast. One waddling roll against the legs, and Short Abe was down for the count. Ireland dragged Laborde over with him to the fallen blackmailer and kicked the other man's gun away.

The threat now seemingly over, the party-goers merely returned to their schmoozing and tippling as if nothing had happened. They looked like film noir actors in the amber lighting. Maybe they actually thought they were in a movie. Drama queens, yup.

A high-as-a-kite Barbarella meandered over and giggled down at the man on the floor. “Hey, that's Honest Abe. Has he been a bad boy? I thought he couldn't tell a lie.”

The groundhog growled up at her. “No, you're thinking about George Washington, you bimbo.”

And here came the security guards. Oh well. Ireland didn't have anything else to do tonight. He glanced at Laborde who had sat down to catch his breath, but looked healthy enough. At least he didn't have a dead client to worry about.

He reached down to shake Phil's hand, er, paw. “Leave it to Punxsutawney Phil to have good timing. Thanks, old boy, for helping to bring down the bad guy. Literally. What d'ya say we get a drink when this is all over?”

“Sure thing, Parker.”

Wha? He'd never told the groundhog his last name, let alone his first.

“You'll figure it out, Parker. Give it time.” The groundhog was out of breath and seemed content to rest on his haunches.

“Riiiight, er, Phil. You did say you liked puzzles. So,” Ireland tried his Humphrey Bogart voice again. “Is this the beginning of a beautiful friendship?”

“Aren't you supposed to be Sam Spade?”

“Yeah, why?”

“That's Casablanca . Sam Spade wasn't in Casablanca . That was Rick Blaine. You're mixing movie icons.”

“You're a groundhog, Phil. Don't be splitting hairs.”

Phil almost laughed, except in his swaddled getup, he could only manage something like a “whoompf.”

That drink was beginning to sound real good to Ireland 's parched gills. Gotta keep up his strength if he had to deal with six more weeks of winter. And him with a broken heater, to boot.