didn’t think
much of it. I thought perhaps she had gone to an early Mass. Later on, I
noticed the safe in my father’s office was open.”
“She took money?”
“A few thousand dollars.
We haven’t heard from her since.”
“How about your church?
Anything going on there? Hate to say, it wouldn’t be the first time a trusting
young woman was taken advantage of.”
I scratched at my wrist
absently while Miss Lopez assured me at length of Reverend Carlson’s impeccable
reputation. We both remembered the Bishop O’Shea case. For an entire year it
had consumed the city’s attention. A clergyman taking advantage of young girls
has a way of firing up the populace.
“What about the maid?”
“Oh, Cora’s practically
doornail.” If she thought the term would bother me, she didn’t show it.
“Honestly, I’m thinking of putting her down.”
There’s only so much
oblivious mootism I can take. “I’m sure that’s for
the best. Cora’s not really family. Will you have it stuffed?”
She blanched. “Oh, that’s
not what I—”
“Get the bones resined ? Use it as a hat rack?”
“That isn’t fair,” she
protested.
“None of this is. But your
moot’s the one that recommended me.”
Her mouth gaped at that.
“How did you know?”
“Who else could you have
asked? It’s probably not quite the doornail you think.”
I’d have to talk to the
moot, that much was plain. After a few more questions, I saw Miss Lopez out
with the promise to expect me at her house that afternoon for a moot-to-moot
chat.
After all, even a rusty
doornail has its uses.
#
I wrote myself a
note to eviscerate my physician – or at least get a refund – and opened the
envelope. Inside, a sheaf of centuries promised another year of function, maybe
two if I could barter Doc down on a few procedures.
As a rule, moots invest
any savings they accumulated in life in priests and charlatans and quacks;
anyone promising something beyond their shambling nonexistence. There are many ways – grisly ways, bloodsoaked ways – to escape
the clutches of unlife , but most moots, sentient and
doornail alike, continue to crave spiritual assurances on the state of their
immortal souls.
I’d never gone in for the godbotherer bit. In my opinion, whatever deity was in
charge had either died, left work early, or simply stopped caring.
Myself, I kept to the
routine. I had little else to do. My family was gone, my unplanned early
retirement refused.
Rather than try again, I
stuck around and took my punishment.
Beneath the cash lay a
photo of Isabel in all her sixteen-years-of-life exuberance. Youthfully curvy,
face pleasingly baby-fatted. Polka-dot dress fit for both church suppers and
driving young men wild. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed a mischievous gap-toothed
grin that would keep any boy she deigned to favour with a smile occupied with
dirty thoughts and dirtier socks.
Regretting it but helpless
to do otherwise, I lifted the picture frame and held it next to the photo. They
could have been sisters. So and Jo gazed out at me, arms around each other’s
shoulders, their toothy grins infectious enough to bring one to my lips even as
a lump formed in my throat.
Three years dead, and
still my body refused to forget.
I put the picture back,
face up. I pocketed the photo and deposited the bulk of the cash in my floor
safe beneath the desk, grabbing a Michigan bankroll I kept there for
emergencies. After a second of thought, I loaded and holstered my gun, a loaded
Colt Detective Special I named after my wife.
Like the pistol, Marion
promised safety.
And delivered death.
#
I typically
neatened up for house calls. Laundered pinstriped suit, shined patent leathers,
tie fully windsored , chin shorn of shadow. The
prospect of interrogating a moot dissuaded me from looking my best.
At the sight of my rumpled
apathy, the Lopez butler promptly broke the first rule of butlering and allowed his blank features the momentary gift of undisguised
much of it. I thought perhaps she had gone to an early Mass. Later on, I
noticed the safe in my father’s office was open.”
“She took money?”
“A few thousand dollars.
We haven’t heard from her since.”
“How about your church?
Anything going on there? Hate to say, it wouldn’t be the first time a trusting
young woman was taken advantage of.”
I scratched at my wrist
absently while Miss Lopez assured me at length of Reverend Carlson’s impeccable
reputation. We both remembered the Bishop O’Shea case. For an entire year it
had consumed the city’s attention. A clergyman taking advantage of young girls
has a way of firing up the populace.
“What about the maid?”
“Oh, Cora’s practically
doornail.” If she thought the term would bother me, she didn’t show it.
“Honestly, I’m thinking of putting her down.”
There’s only so much
oblivious mootism I can take. “I’m sure that’s for
the best. Cora’s not really family. Will you have it stuffed?”
She blanched. “Oh, that’s
not what I—”
“Get the bones resined ? Use it as a hat rack?”
“That isn’t fair,” she
protested.
“None of this is. But your
moot’s the one that recommended me.”
Her mouth gaped at that.
“How did you know?”
“Who else could you have
asked? It’s probably not quite the doornail you think.”
I’d have to talk to the
moot, that much was plain. After a few more questions, I saw Miss Lopez out
with the promise to expect me at her house that afternoon for a moot-to-moot
chat.
After all, even a rusty
doornail has its uses.
#
I wrote myself a
note to eviscerate my physician – or at least get a refund – and opened the
envelope. Inside, a sheaf of centuries promised another year of function, maybe
two if I could barter Doc down on a few procedures.
As a rule, moots invest
any savings they accumulated in life in priests and charlatans and quacks;
anyone promising something beyond their shambling nonexistence. There are many ways – grisly ways, bloodsoaked ways – to escape
the clutches of unlife , but most moots, sentient and
doornail alike, continue to crave spiritual assurances on the state of their
immortal souls.
I’d never gone in for the godbotherer bit. In my opinion, whatever deity was in
charge had either died, left work early, or simply stopped caring.
Myself, I kept to the
routine. I had little else to do. My family was gone, my unplanned early
retirement refused.
Rather than try again, I
stuck around and took my punishment.
Beneath the cash lay a
photo of Isabel in all her sixteen-years-of-life exuberance. Youthfully curvy,
face pleasingly baby-fatted. Polka-dot dress fit for both church suppers and
driving young men wild. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed a mischievous gap-toothed
grin that would keep any boy she deigned to favour with a smile occupied with
dirty thoughts and dirtier socks.
Regretting it but helpless
to do otherwise, I lifted the picture frame and held it next to the photo. They
could have been sisters. So and Jo gazed out at me, arms around each other’s
shoulders, their toothy grins infectious enough to bring one to my lips even as
a lump formed in my throat.
Three years dead, and
still my body refused to forget.
I put the picture back,
face up. I pocketed the photo and deposited the bulk of the cash in my floor
safe beneath the desk, grabbing a Michigan bankroll I kept there for
emergencies. After a second of thought, I loaded and holstered my gun, a loaded
Colt Detective Special I named after my wife.
Like the pistol, Marion
promised safety.
And delivered death.
#
I typically
neatened up for house calls. Laundered pinstriped suit, shined patent leathers,
tie fully windsored , chin shorn of shadow. The
prospect of interrogating a moot dissuaded me from looking my best.
At the sight of my rumpled
apathy, the Lopez butler promptly broke the first rule of butlering and allowed his blank features the momentary gift of undisguised
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