Storymania - Teaching Mindy by Mason Cole

Teaching Mindy (1)
Mason Cole

With an exhausted sigh, Kirk Traynor unlocked the door to his business office at exactly 8:53 PM to begin another night of work. As he walked through the doorway, he threw his hat in the general direction of his coatrack. It missed, of course, but Traynor didn't bother to pick it up. He carefully walked over the old faded dark-red rug, passing between the two ratty old chairs that he always kept for any customers, and slowly moved around his desk to his own chair. Running his fingers over the scarred and lifeless wood surface, he collapsed into his red leather chair and closed his eyes. He thought: I love this chair. I hate this job.

At 9:02, just a few minutes later than usual, his assistant Mindy Ripley walked in. She immediately looked around for his hat, which she found discarded at the foot of the coatrack. Picking it up and hanging it on its hook with a look of boredom on her face, she slumped down into one of the visitor's chairs and regarded her boss with a lazy brown eye. "You know, Kirk, I am not your cleaning lady."

"I know, Mindy, I know."

They sat there in silence for a few minutes. Then suddenly Mindy leaned forward and spoke, a note of desperation in her voice. “You know what’s wrong with our operation, Kirk?”

“First, it’s my business, not ours. Second, I do know, but I suppose you’ll tell me anyway—again.”

"Customers. We haven't had a customer in a week and a half now, and only three in the last month."

"I keep the records. I know what the situation is."

"Dammit, Kirk," she suddenly exploded, "how can you just sit there and be so nonchalant about not being able to pay your office rent? You have to get cases to stay in business, or have you forgotten that?"

"I will still be able to pay this month's rent, thanks to Mrs. McCarthy."

"Oh, yes, she was so generous, wasn't she? Gave you the $20 you asked for to find her cat and then flipped a silver dollar at you and said, 'As a reward, sonny.' With big spenders like that, I'm sure you'll be able to pay your rent for this month sometime around August five years from now."

Traynor slowly rose from his chair, so slowly that he almost lost his balance and fell back into it again. "I know all this, Mindy," he replied as he paced the room to the side window. He lifted the blinds, peeked out at the bright lights of New York, then shut his window to the world with a sharp downward tug on the string. "I guess I just don't care about being a private eye anymore."

"Why did you even start?"

"You know, when I was a kid, I got hooked on Agatha Christie novels. It got to the point where I became addicted to mysteries of all kinds. Sam Spade, Nero Wolfe, Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, I knew them all. I thought that being a gumshoe must be the most exciting thing anyone could ever do for a living. So, as soon as I got out of college with my useless Literature degree, I set up my own PI shop. I solved--"

"You solved two cases in your first three days on the job, and you were headed for greatness."

He turned and gave her a pained smile. "I've told this one before, haven't I?"

"Only every other day, but don't let me stop you."

He turned back to the wall and continued, completely missing the sarcastic roll of her eyes. "Then I didn't get any more cases for a while. And then I finally realized why this was always pictured as such a hard life--it is. The late hours, the long waits between cases...everything just wasn't what I thought it was going to be. It wasn't so glamorous, and there were never any closing credits, and I never got to toss off any ‘Here's looking at you, kid’ dramatic lines. It was boring. But this was all I had to do with my life--"

"So you stuck with it."

"So I stuck with it. Exactly."

"Fabulous story, Kirk. It gets better every time I hear it."

"OK, enough with the sarcasm already."

"Sorry." She didn't sound so sorry to Traynor’s ears. "Anyway, what about that discussion we were having a couple of days ago that you promised to finish yesterday but didn't?"

“Which one was that again?”

“Famous detective strategies. You are supposed to be teaching me, right?”

“Yeah, right. Where did we leave off?”

“You were telling me about some of your favorite novels.”

“Yeah, now I remember. We left off at MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS, by Agatha Christie. In this novel, Hercule Poirot is trying to solve a case of murder on board a train. He quickly discovered that everyone had a motive, the means, and an opportunity, or some combination of the three. Therefore, not a person on the train stood out as a suspect. Further, they also all had an alibi that was confirmed by another suspect—hardly a great basis for belief in the alibi. So what was the only answer?”

Mindy thought about it for a few seconds, and then gave up. “Natural causes?”

“Nope. There was a combination of murderers. Everyone on the train had assisted in the actual kill.”

“Interesting. What if a situation like that came up in real life?”

“There’s really no way it could. No average person is hated that much, and all of the circumstances and coincidences would have to be so completely bizarre that there would be little or no chance of that actually occurring. The odds are that there is always one person or group that you can single out from a range of suspects. That person did it.”

“But what if the circumstances don’t let you single out any one person? What if there are no suspects?”

“Funny you should mention that, because it brings me to my next point. In another Christie novel, AND THEN THERE WERE NONE, you have ten people trapped on this island with no one but each other. One of them is a murderer. The only people you can’t suspect are the ones who are dead. But just before the end of the book, everyone is dead. The last person alive, who by the way was not the murderer, hung herself. So the question every amateur sleuth has to answer before they read the last chapter is, whodunit?”

Traynor had made Mindy really think about this one. “Well, if there was nobody alive, and the last person wasn’t the murderer, who was it?”

“One of the people who was already dead—supposedly dead, I should say. He died during the middle of the book, but it turned out that he enlisted somebody’s help to fake his death, and then that person was the next one to go. There were no witnesses, the man was dead, so everybody thought that the murderer was still alive and with them. And he was…just not the way that they thought.”

“So what lesson am I supposed to learn here?” She pulled out a small notebook and a wooden pen carved to look like a tall, slender Christmas tree. She always took notes from each of his lessons…perhaps that was why they got along so well, he mused.

“One: look for any possible thing that would make the criminal stand out, and then look for someone who has those characteristics. If you can’t find that, then look for the person who has the best reason to commit the crime and examine them closely, but don’t rule out the possibility of a group crime. Two: never accept an alibi unless other people you know couldn’t have committed the crime have confirmed the alibi’s truth. Three: never assume something to be true without close scrutiny, even the things you think you know. Otherwise, something nasty could come back and hit you before you realize it and after you can do something about it. Four, and maybe most important, the oldest detective axiom of them all.”

She repeated the first lesson he’d taught her. “Whenever you have disposed of the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, I’ll keep those in mind for when I get to be a sleuth myself, Kirk. Although I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to decide whether it was the oak tree or the maple tree that kidnapped poor Mrs. McCarthy’s cat. I have a feeling that that’s the only kind of case I’ll be getting.”

Traynor walked back over to his chair and professionally sat down. “And what makes you think that she would ever go to you, when I’ve solved all the cases she ever brought to my attention?”

“All one of them, you mean?”

They shared a laugh, and then it was back to business as usual, discussing the works of Doyle.

The two sleuths were deep in conversation about THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES when Mindy looked at her watch. She dropped her notebook and leaped up, suddenly frantic. “Shoot! It’s 10:05, Kirk! I have to be at Royal’s now. Will you stay here till I get back?”

“Sure. Will it be your usual time?”

“Midnight, yeah. I’ll be there if you need me.”

“OK, Mindy, I’ll mind the store while you’re gone. Hope you and your beau have a good time.”

She grinned at him and flamboyantly sauntered out of the room.

Traynor leaned back in his chair with a sigh. This was going to be a lousy night, but at least he had some reading material at hand. Well, OK, it was an adult store magazine, but he still loved the tired old excuse about reading it for the articles. Besides, maybe a case would come up. You never know, he thought as he opened the top drawer and pulled out the magazine. He was soon lost in fantasies worlds apart from the realm of the private investigator.

*****

He was still marveling at the body curves of the centerfold when someone knocked on the door. Traynor almost jumped out of his chair, but banged his knee against the underside of his desk and fell back into a sitting posture grimacing in pain. He quickly opened a random drawer, shoved the magazine into it, and then shouted for his visitor to come in. He was in the act of shutting the drawer when the building’s maintenance man turned the doorknob and walked into Traynor’s office. The short fellow took a quick look around, and grinned.

“Thought I might have interrupted something special.”

“Screw you, Max.” Traynor said it with an affectionate tone. Every person in every office of the building was familiar with the small, competent night shift man who had a knack for remembering everyone’s names and birthdays. He always took the trouble to leave a greeting card and a little gift for each birthday boy or girl in the building. Traynor still had his last gift—a small bottle of whiskey—in his desk, unopened. He pulled it out now, and held it out to Max. “Drink?”

“No thanks, Mr. Traynor. Got to get home and see my family. Almost midnight…m’shift’s up real soon.”

“No kidding?” Mindy would be back in a few minutes.

“Yup. But I thought before I went, I’d drop this by your office.” Max laid a white envelope on the desk. “It came earlier today, maybe about 8 or so. The gentleman who brought it said it wasn’t urgent, but read it when you got around to it, so I didn’t bring it up to your office till now. That OK?”

“Sure, Max. Good night.” Traynor picked up the envelope off his desktop.

“Night, Mr. Traynor. With that girl coming back, I guess I won’t have to wish you a good night, will I?”

“Why, you—” Traynor playfully started around his desk, but Max had already dashed out the wooden door laughing his head off. Giving up the chase as useless, the detective turned back to the envelope. Out of long habit, he neatly tore the top off, pulled out the folded sheet of paper inside, deftly unfolded it, and began to read.

*****

Mister Kirk Traynor, PI:

My name is H. Cornelius Richards. I am sure you have heard of me, so I will dispense with the pleasantries. I have a rather unusual problem. Of late, I have begun to suspect that a member of my household is working for my imminent demise. To put it in colloquial terms that I am sure you will understand, Mister Traynor, I have reason to believe that someone is plotting against my life.

My wife and I are hosting a somewhat large social affair to celebrate our second wedding anniversary tonight, Wednesday, at our mansion outside of New York City. You are on the guest list. I cordially request that you attend so that we may speak more about this matter, but your investigation may commence whenever you wish. In advance, let me say that your base salary for this affair will be $10,000.00, plus any expenses you may incur. If this figure is not acceptable, then I will of course be more than willing to renegotiate. For your information, I will add that in the event there is, in fact, no murderer, the pay is guaranteed.

You may wonder why, out of all the private investigators in the immediate area of New York, I have chosen you. One of my friends, Mrs. Darnell McCarthy, referred me to your services because of some small matter you handled on her behalf. I only hope for my sake, sir, that you are as deft at handling cases of life and death as you are at the smaller affairs. Please contact me as soon as possible.

Warmest regards,

H. Cornelius Richards

P.S. I believe that the murderer is not a figment of my admittedly vivid imagination, and that he/she may strike soon. So, Mister Traynor, if something has happened to me before your arrival, I would counsel you to remember: These are the times that try men's souls. Do not despair.

*****

Kirk Traynor looked up from the letter with eyes blazing. Finally! After so many petty thefts, after so many lost pets, was this the case he had always been looking for?

Attempted murder—and of the greatest steel tycoon since Carnegie! Even if the old man was senile, then Traynor would still get his cash, and he would be able to save his business for the next two months at least. (He worked days as a waiter in a restaurant, earning barely enough to keep his apartment, let alone his real work.) He could also ask Mr. Richards for some references, and that would buy him more time still. If there was a murderer, on the other hand…Traynor pictured national headlines. Soon after, his business would be flooded with cases. He could hire assistants, and maybe even expand his agency to a larger office. This case could be his salvation.

Just then, Mindy walked in the door to be greeted by one of the strangest sights she had seen in her 24 years: her boss sitting at his desk with a strange letter in his hand and the dawn of new hope on his face. She stood in the doorway for a few seconds before he saw her. When he did, he practically hit the ceiling, leaping out of his chair and over the desk. "Mindy," he cried, waving the letter in the air, "we have a case!" He continued his exultation around the room, knocking over various knickknacks, some of which broke. Traynor didn't notice. Neither did she.

"We actually have a case? You're not just putting me on? We have a case?"

"I would swear on a stack of anything you want! We have a real case--a murder case!"

"You're joking!" She stood in utter horror while he paraded triumphantly around the room. "Somebody got killed, and you're happy about that?"

"No, they haven't gotten killed yet. They might, though. That's why I'm excited. This will do wonders for business; we can save the business! And it's real, a real murder case at last!"

"So, let me in on the details."

Traynor grabbed Mindy's arm and almost broke it while yanking her behind him. "Come on, I'll explain on the way there. We have to see this man tonight. Let's go!" He continued towards what he had always believed to be his destiny, while she, an unwilling animal on a strong and unyielding leash, was drug along for the ride.

*****

There were times when Mindy just didn’t understand her boss. During these times, he dropped any pretense of being a detective and started acting like a schoolboy. It was most unusual when not even the act of going to the scene of a potential case could snap him into his “sleuth on the prowl” mode. Tonight, he was as wound up as a new watch spring. Nothing she could say would get him to dwell on the particulars of his promised topic…he simply continued about how wonderful his opportunity was. Times? Oh, yes, this was definitely one of those times.

They were just driving out of New York City when Mindy finally changed the subject. “This is the route I usually take going to Grandfather’s house.”

“Really?” It was obvious from his tone that Traynor was concentrating more on the road than on his partner. She decided to impress him, however slightly.

“Yes. Cornelius Richards.”

Traynor slammed on his brakes and rapidly steered the car to the shoulder of the road. He turned and regarded Mindy curiously. “Did you just say your grandfather was Cornelius Richards?”

“Yes,” she replied timidly.

The car pulled back onto the road and sped up, well past the speed limit. In the car, one solitary voice broke the puzzled silence. “Mindy, I think that your grandfather may be in serious danger.”

“WHAT?” Traynor heard outrage and shock in the tone. Poor girl, he thought, she doesn’t realize how cruel the world can be. She doesn’t yet know about the letter I got. Impulsively, he reached across the short space between them and held her hand. Over the next few minutes, he told the story about receiving the letter and briefly explained its contents. He left the magazine out.

"So what you're telling me is that my granddad thinks he's being stalked with intent to kill," Mindy said as they pulled into the open gate of Magnolia Gardens, the private estate belonging to H. Cornelius Richards, founder of the Rialto Steel Company.

"That about sums it up. What do you think?"

"I don't know, Kirk. I mean, he's always had a really overactive imagination--"

"He admitted as much."

"But still, if he thinks somebody's going after him, then I'd be more likely to believe him than not. If you knew him, you'd think the exact same. He always comes up with plots against him, but he never tells them to anybody outside his own family unless he thinks the situation is serious."

"Who does he consider a member of his family?"

“Well, there's me, and of course his wife, Brittany. And then his butler, Henry Ross, who's been with his estate for about 15 years. Also, he considers his family lawyer to be a large part of his life. Invites him almost everywhere. He’s a real friend of the family.”

“What’s the lawyer’s name?”

“Gerald Noland.”

His eyes never swerved from following the road to meet with hers. “Is there anyone else, besides the people you mentioned? No additional people?”

“No. He never had any siblings, and only one child, a daughter, who married my father. Both of them were killed in a car wreck six years ago, after I was at college. My grandfather would never leave anyone from his wife’s family anything. And my real grandmother died from a heart attack four years ago this June. That leaves us as the only family.”

“He doesn’t consider Noland’s wife to be family?”

“Not really, except when he has to in association with Gerald.”

“How old is Brittany?”

“My age--24.”

That pulled Traynor up short. He risked a quick glance at Mindy, unconsciously stopping the car.

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