Authors: Gwynne Forster

When the Sun Goes Down (3 page)

BOOK: When the Sun Goes Down

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A month passed, and neither he, Edgar, nor Riggs had found the will. Edgar’s periodic disappearances perplexed Gunther, but he didn’t consider it appropriate to question his older brother about it. When sufficiently annoyed, Edgar neither rationed nor tempered his rage, so, to the extent feasible, Gunther tried to maintain a good relationship with him.

Finally, after several months, he began to wonder if Edgar had discovered the will and was attempting some underhanded measure. He called Edgar. “How’s it going, Edgar? Did you get that job back? I’m beginning to wonder if Father’s estate will ever be settled.”

“I looked for that thing till I started looking in my sleep. I got a gig in Atlantic City, and I’ve been hanging out there. The pay’s better than what you get around here, but there’re so many mobsters that by the time you pay everybody off, you’re practically broke.”

“Sorry about that. I guess that goes along with gambling. Are you playing at the casino hotels?”

“Where else is there to play these days? Man, I’m lucky to get work. Those clubs used to be crowded, but money’s scarce everywhere.”

Gunther didn’t plan to comment on that. Edgar was a skilled guitarist, and if he couldn’t find work at reliable jobs, he had to be part of the problem. “How long will you be in town?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Till Thursday. I wanted to give this joint another shot. That will’s got to be here somewhere. Father wouldn’t have put it where it would be out of his control.”

Gunther wouldn’t dispute that logic. “Good luck. I’m fed up with it.”

“You can afford to be. I can’t.”

He telephoned Shirley, whom he judged to be somewhere between Sicily and Sardinia, according to her travel schedule. “How’s life at sea?” he asked when she answered.

“This has been the best tour yet. Cross my fingers. Not a single tragedy, and we’ve been out four days.”

“You’re getting to be a regular vagabond. I want to know something. Edgar’s acting strangely. He hasn’t asked me for money, hasn’t mentioned his debts, and his complaints about the will have recently been low-key. Did you lend him any money?”

“Uh ... well—”

He interrupted her. “So you did. Don’t do that again, Shirley. Did he give it back to you?”

“No. He said he’d return it in two weeks, and it’s been three months. I don’t expect to see my three grand ever again.”

“
Three thousand dollars?
Are you crazy?” He threw up his hands. “Oh, all right, all right. Let that be a lesson well learned. Where Edgar is concerned, sis, you need to stiffen your spine.”

“I know, and that’s one thing I won’t do again. Anyway, as long as he owes me, he won’t ask.”

“Yeah, but that’s expensive insurance. Call me when you get to Nice.”

“Will do.”

Edgar expelled a long breath and released a string of expletives. He couldn’t continue running home every week to look for the will, and Gunther and Shirley didn’t much care about it. He was spending more money on transportation than he could afford, and after paying off the goons for letting him do his gig undisturbed, he didn’t have enough cash left for the makings of one Mary Jane.

Riding toward the JFK Memorial Highway, he passed a sign that read M
ONTGOMERY
D
ETECTIVE
A
GENCY
S
ERVING
E
ASTERN
U
NITED
S
TATES.
In the blink of an eye, he made up his mind and turned back. Following the green and white instructions on a sign, he took the elevator to the fourth floor of the building, walked down the hall to suite 418, and rang the bell. In response, he heard a buzzer, opened the door, and walked into an attractive reception room. A woman of about thirty asked if she could help him.

“I’d like to hire a detective.”

She let her gaze travel from the top of his head to his shoes. “Please have a seat. Mr. Montgomery will be with you in a minute.”

After a few minutes, a smooth-looking Harvard type opened the door, extended his hand for a handshake, and said, “I’m Carson Montgomery. Please, come into my office.”

They sat down, and Montgomery’s gaze seemed to pierce him with the precision of a sharp-pointed weapon. “What can I do for you, Mr... . ?”

“Farrell. Edgar Farrell.” He told the man what his problem was, omitting nothing but the reasons why he needed the money so desperately. “My father was mean-spirited, and he wouldn’t care if my siblings and I cut each other up over his money and property. He didn’t spend it on us when he was alive, and he’s made it as tough as he could for us to get it now. The problem, Mr. Montgomery, is my current lack of big-time funds. If you find that will, you get six percent of my share.”

“You drive a mean bargain. Suppose your father was broke?”

“He wasn’t, and you can check that with his lawyer, Donald Riggs. Besides, Father owned that huge house and everything in it. He was as frugal as they come.”

Montgomery made a pyramid of his ten fingers, leaned back, and closed his eyes. “All right. I’ll look into this and call you tomorrow. What is your phone number?”

He gave the detective his cell phone number. “If you want to locate my brother and sister, Riggs can tell you how to reach them. He also has a key to the house. I’m the only person who lives there.”

He arrived in Atlantic City more than an hour prior to the time for his first show. He checked into the hotel, and after doing his finger exercises, he phoned Gunther.

“You may get a call from a detective. I’m trying to hire him to find that will. I’m hoping he’ll do it for six percent of what I get.”

“Where are you?” Edgar told him. “Is the man reliable?”

“If you meet him, you won’t ask that question. Ask Riggs what he thinks.”

“I definitely will. I talked with Shirley. She was between Sardinia and Sicily en route for Nice.”

“She’d better get off that boat, find herself a man, and settle down. Thirty-two is old to start having children.”

“Maybe. What kind of example are you setting? Thirty-six is old if you’re still single.”

“Lay off, man. That applies to people who had empathetic fathers. Gotta go.”

“And nobody could accuse us of that. If things turn out all right with Montgomery and he finds the will, I’ll share the cost. You pay him three percent of your take and I’ll give him three percent of mine. Okay?”

“Right on, brother!”

Edgar looked around his hotel room, disgusted. He could afford that little room, but only the deaf could sleep there. After a shower, he stretched out on the bed for a brief rest, got out his tuning fork, and tuned his guitar. He patted its bridge and stroked its neck.

“As long as you’re with me, baby, I’ll never starve,” he said aloud. Then he remembered how his father hated his guitar and so despised his competence at playing that he wouldn’t allow him to play it where he could hear it. But he played and practiced in the basement and in closets and whenever he was alone in the house. The guitar became to him a symbol of defiance. During his father’s lifetime, he locked his guitar in the closet in his bedroom, and whenever he couldn’t take the instrument with him, he kept it there.

Higher education held no interest for him. As a teenager, he took the money he made on street corners and in clubs and churches and spent it on lessons with accomplished guitarists, both classical and jazz.

He got backstage ten minutes before time for his performance as a side man with the house band. “You’re second guitarist tonight,” Mason, the band leader, said. “Jack Vine is sitting in with us.”

Edgar stared at the man. “Yeah? Then let him do a solo. I’m a lead guitarist, and I don’t do second. I know my shit, man, so knock it off. Vine is a bigger name, but I play circles around that dude, and he knows it. Who’s gonna play lead tomorrow night when Vine’s in Chicago, or somewhere else?” He took his usual chair and played lead guitar throughout the show. He didn’t know and didn’t care what Mason said to Vine.

After the show, he put his hand in his pocket and fished out eleven dollars and forty-three cents. Twenty-four hours earlier, he’d had seven hundred dollars. He swore aloud. Something had to give.

Chapter Two

Carson Montgomery had no intention of becoming involved in a fight over a will. Neither he nor his detectives had time for the shenanigans of which siblings were capable. He telephoned Gunther Farrell.

“Good morning, Mr. Farrell, this is Detective Carson Montgomery. Edgar Farrell has asked me to find his father’s will, but as you and your sister are also beneficiaries, I’d like to know where you stand in this.”

“Thanks for calling. I certainly approve of any legal steps to locate that will, and I’d like to meet you, if you have time. What about fifteen minutes this afternoon?”

“Would you care to meet for a short lunch?” Carson asked.

“I’m on York, not far from Madison.”

“I’m on Calvert, about five blocks from you. What do you say we meet at the Frigate? Would twelve-fifteen suit you?”

Gunther looked at his watch. “I can do that. Twelve-fifteen it is. First to get there takes a table.”

“Right.”

Carson hung up. From that short conversation, he had a sense that Gunther Farrell was an honorable man and that, in some ways, he towered above his brother. He especially appreciated that Gunther wanted to meet him, obviously in order to appraise him as a person. He wanted the same advantage in respect to Gunther.

Minutes before twelve-fifteen, he entered the Frigate, a landmark seafood restaurant, and while he stood at the maître d’s desk, Gunther walked up and asked for him. They shook hands, and the maître d’ led them to a corner table.

“Thank you for meeting me,” Gunther said, and Carson laughed inwardly. The man was set to have the conversation go his way, but he’d see about that.

“It’s advantageous for me, too,” Carson said. “I like to know who I’m dealing with, and I can’t make that assessment over the phone. I confess that your brother didn’t make the best impression on me.”

“Desperate people rarely represent themselves well,” Gunther said, to which Carson raised an eyebrow. “Edgar thinks he lives on his own terms, because he knows that as long as he has that guitar and ten healthy fingers, he can make a living. He’s an excellent guitarist, and that’s all he seems to care about. He told me how he expects to pay you, and I offered to split that with him. Our father was a rich man who cared little for anything other than his money and property. If you get six percent of a share, you’ll get a bundle.”

“What about your sister? Where is she, and how will she react to this plan?”

“Our sister is the youngest of the three, and if Edgar and I both agree on a thing, she most often accepts it. She’s a public relations officer on a cruise ship that’s currently docked in Nice.” He seemed to study Carson. Then he said, “This is a clever thing Edgar’s done. I hope you’ll agree to take the job.”

“I’m accustomed to looking for people and for clues to problems. This will be a challenge, but it definitely will not be boring. I’ll phone Edgar and write out a contract for him.” He looked up at the waiter, whose face bore an expression of exasperation. “I’ll have a big bowl of New England clam chowder and a Caesar salad.”

“I’ll have the same,” Gunther said.

“What do you do for a living?” Carson asked Gunther.

“I own a software company that designs, produces, and distributes intelligent computer games and puzzles for all ages.”

“How does one get into that?” Carson asked him.

“I’ve been doing games and puzzles since I was nine or ten. My father hated it, and when I began doing it for a living after having gotten an MBA, my father all but disowned me. He wanted me to join the Wall Street fat cats and get rich. But since I got through college and graduate school with almost no help from him, I figured I could do as I pleased.”

“I’m beginning to understand why Edgar thinks you don’t care about your father’s will.”

Gunther lifted his right shoulder in a quick shrug. “Of course I care. But if it’s never found, I won’t lose a minute of sleep. For Edgar, it’s a lifeline.”

They finished lunch, walked out together, and shook hands. “I’m glad I met you,” Carson said. “I’d certainly like to see who your sister more closely resembles in personality and outlook, you or your brother.”

A smile played around Gunther’s lips. “Shirley is her own independent self. She loves us, but she does not walk our walk. You may want to interview her, since each of us has a take on Father and the sort of person he was. I hope to hear from you.”

“You will indeed.” Carson rushed back to his office and jotted down some notes on his conversation with Gunther. He drafted a contract, phoned Edgar, and read it to him.

“Just remember this one thing,” Edgar said. “I’m the one you report to. I expect you’ll talk with Shirley and Gunther all you need to, but I’m the one you report to.”

“I have no problem with that,” Carson said, “so long as it’s agreed that you’re responsible for payment.”

He hung up, gave the contract to his secretary for typing, and looked up Leon Farrell on the Internet. He discovered that the man earned a fortune speculating in real estate and was known for his scroogelike reputation. At his funeral, only his children, his lawyer, and the preacher and paid pallbearers were present. Carson phoned Gunther, got his father’s address, and contacted the builder of the family home for the house plans. He needed to know every niche in that house and any other of Farrell’s properties, such as vacation homes, automobiles, boats, garages, and the like.

Two days later, Edgar signed the contract and gave Carson his first interview. “Man, how long is this going to take?” Edgar asked him. “I need the bread, man.”

“If you read the fine print on the second page of that contract, you’ll see that I made provisions for harassment. If you do that, I can tear up the contract. And I will do it. I’m not begging for work. You got that?”

“Yeah. I got it, but that will ain’t gonna walk up to you and say, ‘Hello, Mr. Montgomery. Here I am.’”

“No kidding? And to think I’d planned to get a can of beer, go to your place, sit in front of the TV, and wait for the damned thing to drop in my lap. Look here, Mr. Farrell. You take care of your business and stay out of mine. And if you want to sound clever, try it on somebody else. As far as I’m concerned, that comment was childish. Send my secretary a list of your father’s properties. I’m going to examine every one of them.”

“Right. I didn’t mean to pull your chain, man, but this has been going on too long, and if we don’t find it by mid-January, the state takes over, siphons off as much as it wants, and then decides of the little that’s left who gets what and what goes where.”

“Okay. Just send me that list.” He hung up. If he let Edgar Farrell work his nerves, he’d quit the job before he started. He hoped Shirley wasn’t frantic about the will. The last thing he needed was a woman plaguing him 24/7.

Back in his office, Gunther worked on a computer game in which a mouse tried to teach neighboring cats about the unhappy lives of mice that lived in constant dread of their cat neighbors. After watching a group of preschool children terrorize a playmate, he’d designed the game as a teaching vehicle about the effects of cruelty.

“When am I getting a chance to try out that game on my Effie?” Medford, one of his assistants, asked him. “I have a feeling she’ll love it.”

“Maybe. How old is Effie?”

“She’s four, and practically everything she sees excites her. She’s pretty good at the computer. She reads, writes, counts, and, man, does she love to sing.”

Gunther stopped working as a thought struck him. “Bring her in tomorrow. I’d like to get her reaction to this.”

Medford’s lower jaw dropped. “You’ll pay Effie to have fun with that game?”

“How will I know kids will love it if I don’t test it? I’ll pay her twelve-fifty an hour.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. You wouldn’t need her for the whole day, would you?” He held up both hands, palms out. “Just kidding. My wife would take my hide off.”

“Call for you on line three, Gunther,” his other assistant said.

He lifted the receiver and pushed the button. “Farrell speaking.”

“Honey, this is Lissa.” He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. As if he didn’t know her voice. “Any more news about the will, honey? I mean ... did they find it yet?”

He was unprepared for the burst of anger that seemed almost to consume him. “Who do you mean by ‘they’?” he asked her. “I haven’t been looking for it.”

“What? But how can we plan on building a new home and doing all the things we want to do if you don’t find the will? I want a big wedding, and—”

It was too much. He interrupted her. “Why do you think we’re getting married, Lissa? I have never mentioned marriage to you. We are not engaged because I have never asked you to marry me, and you have no right to assume that we’re getting married. If you think I can be railroaded into it, think again.” There! He’d told her, and he should have done it the first time she tried that trick.

“But we’ve been going together over eight months, and I haven’t been seeing anyone else. How can you do this?”

“Hold on, Lissa. Did I ever ask you not to see any other man?”

“No, but you took up my time. Every day is important to me. I’m forty-four years old, and—”

He nearly swallowed his tongue. That had definitely been a slip. “Forty-four? But you told me you were thirty.” He took a deep breath and exhaled it. “I’m sorry, Lissa, but we’d better call this off right now. I’ve been concerned that each time we’ve had even the smallest confrontation, you solved it by seducing me. At first, I liked it. But you made a habit of it, and I began to resent being manipulated. Sex should be an expression either of need or of love. Where I stand, it’s not for problem-solving and certainly not for controlling another person. It’s been nice knowing you, and I do wish you the best.”

Relief flooded his whole being. He hung up and returned to the game of mice and cats, whistling as he worked, and the pieces began to fall into place.

“I think I’ve got it,” he said to Medford several hours later. “If you don’t want to bring Effie here, I could drop by your place with a copy of the game for an hour or so this afternoon.”

Medford seemed to ponder the alternatives. “I’d like to have you come home with me, but if Effie sees that game this evening, she’ll be uncontrollable for the rest of the night.”

The following morning, Medford arrived with his daughter, and she hardly needed Gunther’s instructions. He watched, fascinated, as she took to the game as if it were her idea. After testing it and the instructions he had to write for it, he wrote a check for twenty-five dollars and handed it to Effie.

“Give that to your father,” he said, and thanked her for the visit. When Effie didn’t want to stop playing, he knew he’d hit the jackpot with that game, and he could hardly contain his elation. He’d published only a few games so far, compared to the number of games on the market, and he took pride in their quality and popularity. Some of his competitors had offered to buy him out, and one had attempted to purchase the building in which he had his business. But the building’s owner had refused to sell, and he was grateful for that. This time, he was going to publish and distribute
Mice and Cats
himself, and the vultures and thieves wouldn’t have a chance at it.

Gunther was still buoyed by his vision of the future when he received a call from Shirley. “I’ve got two weeks’ shore leave,” she told him. “Can I hang out with you, or will that louse up things with you and Lissa?”

“Lissa’s history. When will you get here?”

“Hallelujah. We dock in Fort Lauderdale tomorrow morning. I’ll go home, check things out, and see you day after tomorrow. I hope to sleep indefinitely. How’re things? Did Edgar hire a detective yet?”

“Yeah, I met him, and I think he’s first class ... at least as a man. We’ll see about his detective skills. He’ll want to interview you.”

“Fine with me. We can talk about it when I see you. I have this weird feeling that things are going too smoothly. It isn’t like Edgar to be so low-key about a thing that’s so important to him.”

“You’re right. That hadn’t occurred to me.”

“I keep telling you I’m smart. See you in a couple of days. Love you.”

BOOK: When the Sun Goes Down

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