WITH FRIENDS LIKE THIS WHO NEEDS ENEMIES

 by Marshall Bye

Even with the phone at my ear, I was only half listening to Neil Warack's request.  My mind was on the 4 Across clue in the crossword puzzle: ‘poisonous perennial flower;' eight letters, middle two letters are GL.   

"Yeah, Neil, I'll look into it," I replied.  "What makes you say it's not a natural death? After all, Gus's been in that wheel chair five years."  I love it when a client doesn't agree with the doctor's ruling on death; brings me business. 

"Look Stub, I visited him the week before andhe sure as hell didn't have a foot in the grave then."  Neil was always assertive in a quiet, soft-spoken way, but that didn't keep him from swearing a blue streak when pressed.  He carried on, "Gus was excited about his latest project that'll bring in millions for our company.  He needed two more weeks to complete it."

"There's more than that to make you so het-up," I told him.

After some fulminations, Neil snarled, "Look old friend, this man is the backbone of our company; I don't know what we'll do without him. Our hopes for a new product and all that money rested on Gus."

"Okay, I'll check into it…only because you and me go back a long way.  However, making it not a natural death won't bring him back. Is there more I should know?"

"We have a cash flow problem.  As co-owners, we have a million dollar life insurance on each other, with a double indemnity clause for death due to unnatural causes.  I need the two million."

"Okay.  Now we're getting somewhere.  Who's the suspect?"

"Ethel, his wife. Wheels fell off his love wagon five years ago-and it's not because of a flat tire." 

Gus Commery had helped me out many years ago and I had been visiting him off and on since his progressive, debilitating disease hit.  Ethel was usually at her job in an investment office whenever I called.  "Tell me more."

"A man in a black Lincoln has been picking up Ethel every Friday evening, driving out of town, and returning Sunday…for the last six months. I don't think that's the story of a happy wife." 

Neil stopped, pressing me to say something. "Okay, Neil," I said finally, "A couple of questions; where were you when Gus was murdered?"

 "What are you inferring?  That I killed him?  Damn you!"  His voice dropped lower; I could almost hear the blood coursing though his clogged arteries. I've told him he smokes too much.

"I have a caveat," I answered in his tone of voice.  "I will find the miscreant.  But, everybody's a suspect.  If it's my client, so be it."  I let it sink in.  Then I increased my decibels, "All friendships aside, if you don't like that, fire me now, or damn it, answer my question."

 "He died on Saturday."  His voice moderated.  "I was in Reno for the weekend with my secretary, Lily Petticoat.  My wife and I are in a messy divorce.  I don't want her to know."  I could picture him; he's not a bad looking middle-aged man except for the bulbous nose that would be getting redder and ready to explode about now.  "You have any more asinine questions?"

"None of my questions are asinine.  You'll hear from me."  I outlined the details of the contract I would send him.

"Stub, I know where your name came from and how I bailed you out once, and if it wasn't that you're so damn stubborn, I'd tell you to go to hell.  My trouble is, I need your miserable type." 

Oh sure he throws that ‘bailed-me-out stuff' at me now, when it's really all about him.  Then I heard the important part. It was a whisper that sounded like, "Make it murder." 

I have a singular philosophy.  This world is comprised of two groups: scum-those on the wrong side of crime…and the good guys.  I've accepted my role as one who maintains the balance by reducing the scum.  The first 25 years of my life, I was scum.  At age 8, I hoisted comic books and resold them.  The scope of my business just grew until it was jet planes in third-world countries.  After a few years cooling my heels in exile, I smartened up, got an education, pulled a gig as a lawyer and a CEO, and now I'm retired.  Along the way, I've acquired a good number of IOUs (all stored in a rolodex between my two ears) from both sides of the scale.  I've handed out a few IOUs, also, which brings me to my current situation. 

I hate it when a slob asks me to do a job for him and reminds me he holds my IOU.  The irony is, I do it all the time.  I honor all my IOUs and I damn well expect others will, even if I have to tighten some screws.

Neil Warack held one and I wasn't sure on which side of the balance Neil Warack skulked.

My friend Gus Commery had held one of my IOUs, too.  I intended to honor it, first and foremost.

 All that explained why I was standing on the doorstep of Ethel Commery's house on a quiet cul de sac in North Calgary , with a light rain spoiling the view of the mountains. I could have been sitting comfortably, with an ale, in my leather armchair before my fireplace this late fall day, solving the morning Calgary Herald crossword puzzle: 17 down: ‘results of 4 Across taken orally.'  Just 12 letters; 5th, 8th, and 9th letters respectively were T, I, L

Inside, Ethel served chamomile tea. "This is good for what ails you, Stub," her lips smiled but her eyes cried. 

She sat beside me on the red and blue floral-covered love seat.  On the TV sat a photograph of Gus and Ethel, a slip of a thing beside the ex-football player; their wedding picture.  I expressed my condolences.  She placed her soft hand on my arm, smiled bravely, and said, "I really appreciate those words, Stub. You are a kind friend." 

Was she buttering me up?  I hadn't seen her more than a half-dozen times.  The tea was bitter.

"What really brings you here, Stub?"

"Gus had life insurance, double indemnity, right?" I was guessing she knew. She seemed taken back. 

"Where are you going with this, Stub?  Gus died of a heart attack…a natural death.  Didn't he?"  Her teacup rattled in its saucer.

 If Gus was murdered, you'll collect twice the amount.  Same as Neil will."

 The doctor said he died of heart failure."  Her back straightened, her voice softened.  "Yet, I find that hard to believe. His doctor said he'd passed all his tests and he was achieving so much. Besides,  I'd never leave Gus alone for a weekend if he wasn't well."  A mascara-streaked tear trickled down her cheek. 

I waited for more. 

Seeming to be in a trance or wrapped up studying her red slippers, she blurted out, "He'd said Judy was coming in to put the final touches to the project. It was a multi-million dollar maker."  She shook her head slowly.  "I can't believe he just died so suddenly."

She was sincere, I'm positive.  I had to help her; I owed it to Gus.  "The coroner can be requested to do an autopsy."  I tried sipping my tea, again.  I hate chamomile tea.  "We want to be one step ahead of the insurance company."  No response.

I picked up on something she'd said earlier  "Where were you when Gus died?"

"I went to Edmonton Friday afternoon for the weekend."  She paused.

Oh my gawd, why did I ask? I didn't really want to hear this. The hand my saucer and cup shook and slopped some tea.

She reached for a tissue, blew her nose, and continued, "Frank picks me up every Friday afternoon."

An invisible blow hit the pit of my stomach.  Maybe I was wrong. I should stick to my crossword puzzles; puzzles didn't leave me sick.

She must have seen my face.  "You do remember my brother Frank?  Right?"  Then I recalled I had met Frank once about ten years ago.  My face must have brightened like the sun coming out from behind a dark cloud.  She continued, "My mother suffers from Alzheimer's and Dad refuses to put her in a home. We relieve Dad every chance we get."

Her Dad was relieved; great.  Hell , I was relieved!  My pulse rate returned to normal.  I just knew this poor lady couldn't do what Neil envisaged.

"May I see Gus' office?" 

Ethel took my hand, led me to the room.  As we went past the kitchen window, I glanced out and saw a flower-filled garden resplendent in fall colors. "Are you a gardener?"

"Oh, yes.  Both of us love flowers-lately it's me."  Her grip on my hand tightened.  "Neil brought those foxgloves-two years ago.  They've practically taken over the garden.  After that, Neil only came when I wasn't here.  He was always pressuring Gus, 'Get the job done. Get the job done.' He'd never stop." She was agitated.  Dropping my hand at the office door she said, "I'll leave you." 

I didn't find anything that rang my bell.  Everything seemed in order; no dusting done for months.  I did notice two books with no dust- and thought that very odd. Their titles were Poisonous Plants in the Garden, Volume I and II.  Gus' wheelchair sat at his desk.

"Has anyone been in the office since Saturday?" I asked Ethel at the front door on my way out.

"Just Judy, Judy Graddon. She often looked after Gus when I was away.  She's Gus' computer specialist and research assistant.  Why do you ask?"

"Just getting the facts, ma'am."  I love using that line. 

Something was niggling around up there in my rolodex.

She reached up and gave me a kiss, "Thanks for coming...and for caring."

As I walked down the steps to the sidewalk, that puzzle clue from earlier flitted across my mind: poisonous flowering perennial.  It shouldn't be that hard. 

Wham!  Something else came from my subconscious to jolt me.

That happens to me periodically: when something is bugging me and I can't pin it down, the answer will hit me with a resounding bang when I'm pondering another issue.

Her brother Frank had died in a car crash about five years ago; Ethel's parents died, also.  Now, what in hell was she trying to pull? 

However, while I was in the area, I'd visit a few neighbors who had optimum views of the cul de sac.  At the top of an incline and in the middle of the arc sat a house that stood out from the others.  Not only was it blue in a sea of earth-colored buildings but also it sat about ten feet higher than the others, affording an excellent view of the entire mini community.

The man who opened the door reminded me of an old sea captain with a white beard and waxed moustache.  He acknowledged my enquiries and invited me into his living room. 

"Look around while I make tea."  I could see he relished company.  Like a sailor, he rolled on the balls of his feet on the way to the kitchen.  The room had book-lined shelves filling one wall and two rounded porthole windows in another. A sextant sat on a coffee table.  Several telescopes, one with a camera, two sets of binoculars, and a large logbook on a table completed the room's accessories.  I peered through one telescope: bingo...I could see Ethel working at her foxgloves.  Through another, I saw a woman in her bathroom! 

Under the logbook was a photograph album. I sneaked a look.  It contained indiscreet poses of women (and a few men).  I was reading the main logbook when the man returned. 

"Oh, I see you have noticed my logbook," he said.  Very telling, eh what?"  A belly laugh.  "Call me Watson."  I had expected at least ‘Captain Aha' or ‘Bly' from the owner of this nautical gear.  I gave him my handle.

"It's not my name but I like to think I've helped solve a crime or two."  The dewlaps under Watson's closely cropped beard jiggled as he chuckled, yet he was serious.  He handed me a hot mug with ‘Sherlock' printed on it; yet more chamomile tea.  I thought an old tar like Watson would at least have a beer if not grog. 

When I took leave of the sea dog, I had a list of car licenses, their owners, and telephone numbers.  These cars had been on the street during the weekend in question.  Aha!  My hand held a few gap filling photos-one of Her Royal Highness, Miss Lily Petticoat stepping into her 4X4 pickup.  I didn't ask how he got them.

One more interview and I'd be on my way home in time for my afternoon ale.  Margery greeted me coolly at the reception desk in Neil's office.  Her reaction was a front, covering our secret amorous relationship of many years. Quietly, this groovy gem with golden brown eyes, lithe body and strawberry lips repeated a rumor.  "This is on the Q.T.," she purred, "the chief tossed Miss Petticoat out on her royal ass."  "Also," she whispered, "contrary to other rumors, this company is rolling in black ink and has projects pouring out its upstairs windows."

"Thanks.  When this case is finished, the champagne is on me.  Okay?"  I gave her a big wink.

"You better prepare for it…it's been a while!"  She winked back with a lascivious smile.

At first, Miss Petticoat refused to talk to me.  When I asked about the trip to Reno , she became flustered but did admit she and Neil had had a fun time.  The only fact she offer voluntarily was that Neil's limo had taken them to and from the airport. 

I'm not above leaning on people-in a nasty way-if necessary.  "Do you want to be held for conspiracy to murder?" 

Her guilty green eyes got bigger and bigger.  I thought they'd burst and splash around all that mascara.  Her curvaceous body started to melt.  It collapsed into a chair and she said resignedly "He made me do it! That brute…I'll get even. He can't just throw me out after what I did for him." 

Suddenly, her eyes did explode with hostility: they grew smaller and emitted lightning flashes.  "I'm not going back to those test tubes and pipettes in that f.. research lab, no way!" She stood up, stiff and straight.  "That bitching wife gets half a mil; I'll get a million-or he goes to jail." 

"What did he make you do?" 

"I'm not saying another thing, except to Detective Putney."  She folded her arms over her pert breast and clamped her purple lips tight  Detective Putney was leading the investigation for the Calgary Police.

"Your 4X4 was outside Commery's house the day he died.  You want to tell me about that?"  I was bullying again. 

"I wasn't there. I was in Reno ,” she stammered."  Oh yeah, I've heard better lies. 

As I navigated my beat up beige Camry along Memorial Drive toward home, I listened to Johnny Cash's rendition of ‘Rim of Fire'  Somehow, this tune resonated with this case. 

I noticed a big black 4X4 dodging in and out of traffic and gaining on me. An accident waiting to happen, I thought.  Then it was right behind me in the left lane, approaching the Crowchild Trail overpass.  It bumped me, then dropped back and came ahead to rear-end me again on my right corner. If it made contact it would send me to the left into the bridge abutment.  A quick glance indicated I had room on my right.  I used an old trick from my stockcar racing days-I waited until the 4X4 was about to hit me, then stamped hard on the accelerator, twisted my steering wheel to the right, and my souped-up Hemi-altered 460 cc Camry shot across two lanes onto an exit ramp.   I heard metal crunching, and then metal screeching as the 4X4 slid over concrete.  Horns honked and tires screeched, then several crunches of metal against metal.  I took the first left turn available and looped around to survey the scene.  As I went past in the opposite direction, I was amazed to see Petticoat standing beside her smoking, wrecked pickup.  I wondered how long her luck would hold.

It's odd how, after a near death event, one word can keep flicking through one's mind.  The word in my case was foxglove, the answer to 4 across. And a question: Why did Neil give Ethel foxgloves? 

The answer to 17 down: heart failure.

I took a side street and stopped to let the pieces fall into place in my head.  My adrenaline flow eased; my hands became spastic. A half hour later, I eased the Camry into the street.

As soon as I entered my house, I poured a stiff Crown Royal and quaffed it. Then I reached for the phone.  An old compatriot, a clerk in the coroner's lab, confirmed my flash of genius: death by some substance that caused heart failure.  I asked, "Could that substance be foxglove?"

His reply, "Where did you get that idea?" told me all I needed to know.

I called in one more IOU.  I rang Mickey.

"I'll call ya back in 15."  He hung up. 

I gathered he couldn't talk freely and that he'd get to a pay phone soon-; Mickey never left loose ends.  Mickey is the chauffeur for Neil's limo and nobody knows the tale of me saving Mickey from a slow boat-trip up the river. 

As I waited, my mind skimmed the facts of Gus' demise.  It came down to one of four people: Neil, Lily, Judy, or Ethel.  All had motives and all told lies or half-truths.  Who could have prepared the poison?  Neil and Lily are chemists and Lily had just tried to kill me.  Did someone put her up to it?

I'd have to learn more about Judy.  What about Ethel?  Well, someone was using those books in Gus' office.

Mickey's call came as promised.  No greetings, just answers- before I asked the questions.  "First, Shrimp," (my nickname from long ago) "it wasn't the chief in the limo with the bitch at 7 a.m. It was a look-alike company PR man.  She came back at noon on Saturday. The chief and new habitué flew to Vancouver Friday 11 a.m. and they returned Sunday."  Click.

Habitué, my God the man can't speak plain English.

I called Ethel.  "Why in hell did you give me that tear-jerking story?  I know you're having it on with Judy's brother Logan."

"I worried you'd find out, Stub.  I'm sorry.  I didn't think it mattered.  Judy and Gus were of kindred spirits and they knew Logan and I had plans to take new jobs in Vancouver .

"I'll see if I can keep you out of this-only for Gus' sake."  I hung up.

I was just getting into my puzzle again, 23 across: ‘a quack appealing to an audience,' ten letters… when the phone rocked on its stand by my chair.  "Yes?" I growled.

 What have you found out?” growled my caller.

"It's murder, Chump. Ya best cover your ass fast because the shit's gonna hit the fan.  You're a Class One Bastard and a mountebank of the first order.  Never ask me to do another job for you. And, ya better mail my check before the police get there."  I could hear him snorting in anger.  "You can also expect the headline in tomorrow's Calgary Herald to read 'CEO Charged for Hiring Poisoner'.  I could've averted that if you'd come clean with me.  Serves ya right."  I banged my phone. I hate mountebanks. They're too much like me.

I had been used.  You never know your friends until the chips are down.

I had one more call to make before relaxing with my puzzle and another Crown Royal.

 "Detective Putney.  I suggest you ask your coroner to look for foxglove in Gus' blood  Then check where Lily Petticoat was.  Have a good day."

I hung up before he had time to thank me because I knew damn well he'd choke before he'd pass those words over his lips in my direction.

Back to 23 across: ‘mountebank.' 

 The rye was salubrious.  Hmmm… I wonder if Margery would like champagne tonight.