Here's the word on this book from our favorite reviewing authority, Barry Hunter:
Gavin McQue attracts some of the strangest and most amusing cases in any of the Seven Counties and the rest of the world for that matter. This collection gathers them together for a hilarious, laugh a minute group of puns and some mighty fine reading. Don't let this one pass you by because I don't know of anyone who can't use a good laugh.
Baryon
http://www.baryon-online.com for the finest in reviews
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PRESENTLY TENSE
The Case Files of Gavin McQue -- Volume 1
The Case Files of Gavin McQue -- Volume 1
by Gary A. Markette
Published by Whortleberry Press, Box 771, Melrose FL 32666, © 2005
To Sarah, always.
PREFACE
The first of the Gavin McQue stories appeared at anotherealm.com before I took over as editor. The character is my homage to the ‘hard-boiled’ detective novels of the Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Robert Parker stripe. I loved reading those stories, so I decided to try writing some.
--Gary Markette
TABLE OF CONTENTS
THE PIXIE'S DILEMMA
THE HORDE OF THE MOO
MING A DING THING
NO RUNS, NO HITS, NO EROS
INHUMAN RESOURCES
YOU CAN'T MAKE AN OMELET
AND MAY ALL YOUR CHRISTMASES BE...WHAT?
THE TRAVELING SPANKER
LIFE IS JUST A BOWL OF...WHAT?
LOST 'N' FOUND
THE QUONSIL
So I'm sittin' in my office with my feet up on my desk when the door opens and in walks a pixie. Now I got nothin' against pixies. Some of my best friends...well, you know. But I like it if they knock before they enter.
"You're Gavin McQue?" This one asks, coming to my desk like I'd asked him in. I resist the urge to plant one of my size 12 wingtips in his kisser.
"That's the name on the door," I say.
"You're a private investigator?" The pixie continues. His voice is high-pitched and annoying--like most pixies.
"That's under the name on the door," I reply. "So far, you're two-for-two."
If he hears my sarcasm, he ignores it. "McQue," he says, "I want you to catch a thief."
"Gotcha," I say, "I'll just get out my catchers mitt and I'll be all set."
"Huh?" he grunts.
Pixies! No sense of humor. "Look," I say, dropping my feet to the floor. "Let's pretend that I don't know who you are. Let's also pretend that you burst into my office without an appointment. Then, just for laughs, let's pretend that I don't know what you're talking about."
"Huh?" He grunts again; not very original. I sigh.
"Take a seat, Mister?" I say, making the last word a question. I hope he'll get the hint, but it's 50-50.
"Carlton Peony," he says, getting it right. "I'm curator of the Treegreen Museum."
"Take a seat, Mr. Peony," I repeat. "That's what the client chairs are for, believe it or not." I wait until the pixie plops himself in one of my overstuffed courtesy seats. A surprised and happy expression crosses his face. My office chairs are as comfortable as they are ugly. And that means they're very comfortable. I go on: "Now, I'm guessing that you're here because someone's stealing something from the museum, right?"
He seems less than impressed with my deductive ability. "Don't you read the newspaper?" he asks. "The thefts have been on the front page for two days."
I decide not to mention that business has been so bad that I can't afford a newspaper. "Why don't you start," I prod him, "by telling me everything you know about the thefts?"
This focuses him and he starts to talk. For the next 20 minutes he spouts about the Treegreen Museum, its security system, and the artwork that security system is supposed to protect. He's thorough, organized, and speaks without referring to notes. I hate his guts.
"So the Museum uses the GuildGard anti-burglary system," I muse.
"Yes," he replies, brushing an imaginary speck from his expensive trouser leg. "It's supposed to be state of the art..."
"Hey, perfect for a museum," I interject.
"What?" he asks.
"Never mind," I say. "The GuildGard is the best security system available. Are you sure it's installed correctly?"
"Positive," he responds. "We had the company install it. It worked perfectly when we had that break in two months ago."
I dredge a memory from the cobwebs that pass for my brain. Big story, on all the broadcasts: three imps and djinn made a try for the Museum's statue of H. P. Lovecraft. Yeah, yeah, I know. The statue's 80 feet tall and weighs 20 tons. Imps and djinns have never been big on pre-planning. Didn't matter. The GuildGard bagged 'em when they got through the door. Cops found 'em hanging upside down from old H. P.'s elbow.
"So you got someone who can get past an unpassable security system," I say. "And that someone's taking mostly paintings."
"Nothing but paintings, at least so far," Peony says. "I must say I find his tastes surprising. He's gotten several very valuable works, of course, but he's also taken some things that are, well, second-rate. And he seems to prefer certain sizes, of all things."
"Sizes? What about sizes?"
"Well, when he takes only one painting, it's always about the same size; about 12 by 16. But he'll also take two or even three paintings at a time. When he does, it's always smaller works: 5 by 7s or miniatures. It's almost as if he's set himself a limit."
"A limit, yeah," I say, getting a glimmer of an idea. "Anything else you can tell me about the stuff he takes?"
"Always oils, for one thing," the pixie sniffs. "He's passed up some very nice water-colors and several works in other mediums. And he fancies naturals."
"Naturals?"
"Yes, naturals. Woodland scenes, bowls of fruit, wheat fields, that sort of thing."
The glimmer I had earlier grows a bit brighter.
"Let me take a guess about something, here," I say. "He never takes the frames; just the paintings. And that's odd for your museum."
The pixie looks at me with new respect.
"Very good, Mr. McQue," he says. "Of course, most thieves cut paintings free of the frame before they take them. But our frames are frequently artworks in themselves. We thought the thieves simply didn't want the extra burden of the frames. You think it's a clue?"
I love it when a client asks that question. "Something like that. Let's get down to business. I get 500 bux per day plus expenses. Expenses include any help I hire, information I buy, or bribes I hand out. You get no receipts for info or bribes so that means you gotta trust me. I send you a copy of the tax forms I complete for any help I hire. "I usually require a 10 day retainer, but I know the museum is good for its debts. And I'm sure you want this case solved as soon as possible..."
"Absolutely," the pixie interrupts.
"So I'll start tonight," I conclude. "I'll be at the museum just before it closes. You let me in and then close the place up tight. I'll snoop around and maybe catch your thief before the night's over."
The pixie looks dubious. "I don't know," he says, "I hoped to get more for the museum's money than an expensive security guard..."
I wad a piece of paper and toss it at him. Hit him right in the face. "That was to get your attention," I say, as he starts to bluster. "Be grateful I didn't pitch the stapler. Get this straight, Peony: I didn't come to you, you came to me. I don't tell you how to run your museum, you don't tell me how to run an investigation. You got a problem with that, the door's to your right."
I can see the green-skinned little twerp think it over. I hope he doesn't get up. Groveling always makes me feel so submissive.
"Very well, McQue," he says at last. "Be at the Museum at 8:00 p.m. this evening. We close at 8:30." He gets up and checks his watch. "That's 6 hours from now."
"That must mean it's 2:30, huh?"
"Don't be late, Mr. McQue. He leaves.
Pixies! No sense of humor.
I wait until I'm sure the uptight little jerk is gone. Then I call Duck. Duck runs the fencing operations in Treegreen and the Seven Counties. No. He doesn't build fences. But he can get you anything you want. Want a diamond necklace? Duck can get it for you. Want two tickets to the World Series? Duck can get them for you. Want to find some missing paintings...?
"Sorry, Gavin, no can do."
"Duck. This is me. Gavin. Don't shine me on."
"No shine, McQue. I can't help you."
"These are the paintings from the Treegreen Museum heist. There's a big reward."
"Reward, shmeward. They're worth lots more on the open market. If I knew where they were, I wouldn't go for no reward. But I don't know where they are. Haven't got 'em. None of my people got 'em."
With anyone else I'd ask if he was sure about his people. Not with Duck. Last fence that tried to sidestep Duck came to grips with his mortality in a very unpleasant way.
"No smell of the swag at all, huh?"
"What is it with you, McQue? 'Heist.' 'Swag.' Did you swallow a Damon Runyon primer?"
"Who?"
"Never mind. No. No smell of the swag. No sniff of the boodle. No stench of the loot. No stink of the..."
But I cut him off and hang up. If Duck can't help me, that means this case is very strange. And I have a few things to buy before tonight,,,
***************
It's 10:45 and I'm alone in Treegreen Museum. Earlier, Peony meets me at the door. "You're 10 minutes late, McQue," he says, looking at his watch again.
"Fancy that," I reply. "Sure your watch isn't fast?"
Ignoring my question, he points to the canvas bag I’m carrying. "And what's that?" he asks.
"Tools of the trade, Peony," I reply. "I'd tell ya, but then I'd have to kill ya."
"We'll have to inspect it before you leave tomorrow," he says. "No offense."
"None taken," I say, watching for my chance to plant a "Kick Me!" sign on his back. "You put my profile in the GuildGard?" He nods and I relax a bit. Since the GuildGard knew I'd be prowling around, there was less chance of false alarms or pre-emptive action. I didn't want to end this evening in a capture net.
After Peony leaves and activates the GuildGard, I spend 2 1/2 hours setting up my traps. Just got finished. Right now I'm sitting in one of the Museum's galleries and waiting to see if my theory's right.
Quiet. This place is quiet. Gives me the creeps.
Well, if I can't hear anything, at least I can smell. I bring my handful of ropes to my nose and sniff. Vinegar. Olive Oil. Garlic. Onion.
Still quiet. Not a sound. Except for that: a crunching noise near one of my traps. Pull the rope. No. Not that one. This one. Yeah! Crunching stops. Sounds of scuttling. Sounds of scratching. Walk to the trap. Slide the cardboard underneath the box. Upend the box. Careful. Careful. Gotcha!
Time to call the pixie.
***************
"It's 2:00 a.m., McQue," the pixie groans on his end of the phone. "What do you want?"
"Got your thief, Peony," I respond. "Thought you'd like to know."
"Well, call the police, then. No need to bother me."
"Er, I don't think you want the police on this, Peony."
"Not want the police? Whyever not?"
"It's easier to show you than to tell you. Get down here."
"Can't it wait until tomorrow? I've taken a sleeping pill."
"Drink some coffee. Splash yourself in the face. Think about wrinkled dress shirts. Do anything you need to keep awake and get your pixie butt down here. You got a problem and I need you here to solve it."
That does it. A click on the line tells me he's on his way.
******************
It's an hour later and I got a sputtering pixie on my hands.
"This is ridiculous, McQue," Peony gripes. "First, you call me at this ungodly hour and force me to rush down here. Then, you spin this preposterous tale. I'm warning you, the Treegreen Museum is not to be taken lightly."
I resist the urge to stuff him into the too-handy Iron Maiden. "It's no tale, Peony. If you don't believe me, look in the box."
"And what will I see when I look in there?"
"Just what I told you you'd see."
"A lizard?"
"That's right, a lizard."
"And what kind of lizard will I see?"
"Do I look like a zoologist to you, Peony? I got a pith helmet on my head? How do I know what kind of lizard? It's about half a foot long, green, with yellow and brown markings. It's hungry, it's confused, and it's mad about being in a box."
Peony waves a limp-wristed hand. "I have no doubt," he sniffs, "That I'll see a lizard when I look into that box. You probably brought one with you this evening. If you expect me to believe that same lizard has been stealing priceless paintings..."
"Not stealing," I interrupt, "Eating."
"...then you've got another...What did you say?"
"You gave me the first clue when you mentioned that the thefts were front page news," I explain. "I get most of my news from the grapevine, and there's been nothin' about any museum stuff passin' the fences. So I called a friend of mine and checked. Nobody knows from stolen paintings. This means either the crook is keeping the paintings for himself or disposing of them another way."
I see that Peony is listening to me now. Good news. Maybe I won't have to commit pixiecide after all. I go on. "To me, it doesn't matter; but it's real important to you. If the crook's keeping the paintings, no problem. We catch him and force him to give them up. No muss, no fuss, no insurance problems. But if the crook's disposing of the paintings, things get dicey. And that brings me to the second clue."
I reach into my canvas bag and pull out a head of lettuce. "Actually, a set of clues: first, the thief took about the same quantity of art every time; second, the thief took only the paintings, never the frames; third, the thief took nothing but oils; finally, the thief took paintings with natural features: bowls of fruit, landscapes with trees, bushes, and other vegetation."
I reach into my bag a couple times and emerge with vinegar, oil, garlic, salt, pepper, onions, and radishes. "Add to that the GuildGard. It's a terrific security system, but it's only as good as the profile you set for it. You said the company installed it for you, so they used their standard set up. Their ads say that'll catch anything bigger than one meter. And it will."
I pull a cucumber from my bag. "Put these things together and there's only one solution. Of course, you need a top-notch shamus to see what that solution is. Lucky for you," I buff my fingernails, "You got one."
"And from this," the pixie complains. "You deduced that something was eating the museum's paintings?"
"No, I figured I was wrong. The idea was just too crazy. But I couldn't just forget about it, because it explained the clues. So I came here tonight to find out, once and for all." I point to the fixings I'd removed from my bag. "I tossed a bunch of salads and put them next to heater grates and air conditioning vents. Then, I rigged a simple box trap above each salad and sat down to wait. Heard some munching, pulled a rope, called you."
"Yes," he says. "And you said I have a problem. If you've actually caught the thief, what problem do I have?"
"You had the paintings insured, didn't you?" I ask, starting to lay it out for him."
"Yes, but what does that..."
"And you had a guarantee clause with GuildGard, too," I continue.
"Of course. That's standard proce..."
"You got, what? Two, three million bux to cover the museum's losses so far?"
"More like 12 or 13 million," he says, insulted. "These were important works of art..."
"So what do you think the insurance companies and GuildGard are gonna do when they find out a lizard ate the paintings?"
"I don't see what..."
"I'll tell ya what I think they're gonna do. I think they're gonna say that the paintings were destroyed by an act of nature. I think they're gonna realize that acts of nature aren't covered by insurance policies or guarantees. And I think they're gonna sue the museum to get their money back."
The pixie's silent; it's finally starting to sink in.
"They'll win their case in any court in the Seven Counties." I continue. "A lizard eating seems like an act of nature to me. So you lose the artwork, you lose the money you got for the artwork, and I'm betting you lose your cushy job. The museum's board of directors doesn't like bad memories."
Peony turns even paler than usual for a pixie. "So now I suppose you blackmail me to keep you from spreading this tale?"
I shake my head. "Don't like blackmail. Too dangerous. No, I'm trying to do my job. Part of that job, as I see it, is protecting the museum's interests. And it's not in the museum's interest to lose the paintings and the insurance money too. So I'm gonna need some things from you."
I hold up a finger. "First, I need a list of every painting our scaly friend munched. Second, I need to know the approximate market value of those paintings. Third, I'm gonna need about a hundred thousand bux."
An apoplectic pixie is fun to watch. "I thought you said you didn't like blackmail! A hundred thou..."
"It's not blackmail, it's a bribe," I interrupt. "I know someone who can make this problem go away, but he doesn't come cheap. Figure it as part of my fee and write it off. Hey," I continue as Peony tries to protest, "You're gettin' off easy. This could cost you millions. Do it my way and you're out a hundred grand."
He hems and haws a bit, but finally pulls out a checkbook. He scribbles. "I trust," he says, tearing the check free of the book, "That this is the last I'll hear of this."
"Not quite," I say, folding the check and pocketing it. "You're gonna get a call in a few days. Memorize what I'm about to tell you and repeat it exactly."
His eyes widen as I tell him what to say, but he doesn't smile.
Pixies! No sense of humor.
**************
The pixie's silent; it's finally starting to sink in.
"They'll win their case in any court in the Seven Counties." I continue. "A lizard eating seems like an act of nature to me. So you lose the artwork, you lose the money you got for the artwork, and I'm betting you lose your cushy job. The museum's board of directors doesn't like bad memories."
Peony turns even paler than usual for a pixie. "So now I suppose you blackmail me to keep you from spreading this tale?"
I shake my head. "Don't like blackmail. Too dangerous. No, I'm trying to do my job. Part of that job, as I see it, is protecting the museum's interests. And it's not in the museum's interest to lose the paintings and the insurance money too. So I'm gonna need some things from you."
I hold up a finger. "First, I need a list of every painting our scaly friend munched. Second, I need to know the approximate market value of those paintings. Third, I'm gonna need about a hundred thousand bux."
An apoplectic pixie is fun to watch. "I thought you said you didn't like blackmail! A hundred thou..."
"It's not blackmail, it's a bribe," I interrupt. "I know someone who can make this problem go away, but he doesn't come cheap. Figure it as part of my fee and write it off. Hey," I continue as Peony tries to protest, "You're gettin' off easy. This could cost you millions. Do it my way and you're out a hundred grand."
He hems and haws a bit, but finally pulls out a checkbook. He scribbles. "I trust," he says, tearing the check free of the book, "That this is the last I'll hear of this."
"Not quite," I say, folding the check and pocketing it. "You're gonna get a call in a few days. Memorize what I'm about to tell you and repeat it exactly."
His eyes widen as I tell him what to say, but he doesn't smile.
Pixies! No sense of humor.
**************
It's three days later and my phone's shrilling at me.
"Gavin McQue, Investigations"
"McQue, this is Peony."
"Yes, Mr. Peony."
"Have you seen today's 'Leaf'?"
"I'm looking at it now." I say, looking at a headline:
STOLEN ARTWORK LOST IN FIRE
BARBADOS UPI: Fire razed the plush condo of tattoo czar Lorenzo Cafeah early yesterday morning destroying a reported $20 million in black market paintings and other art. Cafeah, known for his tattoo reproductions of well-known artwork, is alleged to have acquired hundreds of stolen pieces from unnamed sources. Among the art rumored lost were several oils by Huston, wooden figurines by Blarewhich, and several paintings from the Treegreen Museum.
"Of course it's a tragedy that our paintings were destroyed," said Carlton Peony, Treegreen Museum's curator. "But better that than Cafeah copy any of them as a tattoo. Carmody's 'Forest Scene' on some starlet’s tush! One shudders to imagine..."
"Not bad, Peony," I say. "That should make people stop thinking about the paintings and start thinking about some starlet's tush. No guarantees, but I'd say the museum can count on keeping the insurance money and the money from GuildGard."
"Very satisfactory, Mr. McQue," Peony says. "And I've been authorized to inform you that the Museum would like to double your fee."
"Not necessary," I say, "In fact, forget the fee. I'll write this one off as charity work."
Duck owed me a favor and placed the story about the phony fire for about five grand. That left me with $95,0000 expense money from this job. No sense getting greedy.
"That's very generous of you, Mr. McQue," Peony sounds surprised and pleased. "And you can be sure that, should we ever need the services of a private investigator again..." "It's a Gecko, by the way." I interrupt.
"A what?"
"The lizard that was eating your paintings. You asked me what kind it was. It's a Gecko. I know 'cause I sort of adopted him as my office mascot."
"Well, that's very..."
"I named him Art."
"I see..."
Silence.
"I said I named him Art."
"So you did..."
I try again.
"It's a Gecko. I caught him at a Museum. He was eating paintings. I named him Art."
"I hope you enjoy him, Mr. McQue."
"He's a Gecko. I named him Art. That makes him an..."
But the phone line's dead.
Pixies! No sense of humor.
x-x-x
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