Lawrence Block - The Ehrengraf Fandango

“The lack of chemistry.”

“And when it’s not there, it’s never going to be there, is it? But that’s not knowledge one is born with. You have to learn it, and Whit was part of my education. I saw him a few more times, and we went to bed, and I guess he liked it enough to want to keep on seeing me, but I didn’t.”

“And you broke it off.”

“In a pleasant and painless way,” she said, “or at least that’s what I always thought. But I guess it wasn’t that pleasant or painless for him.”

Ehrengraf fingered the knot in his Caedmon Society necktie. “Swinburne,” he said.

“Swinburne?”

“The Nineteenth Century British poet, Ms. McClintock. ‘One love grows green when one turns grey.’ But it seems to have been Mr. Pleskow who turned green.”

“With jealousy?”

“Or envy,” he said, “or something of the sort. To all appearances, Mr. Pleskow went on with his life. He dated other women, and eventually he married one of them. The marriage failed, and again he went on with his life. And yet, throughout it all, he remained fixated on one woman. And that would be you, Ms. McClintock.”

She shuddered. “It seems impossible,” she said. “And yet I saw that photograph.”

“The little shrine. Photographs of you, and newspaper clippings. A little altar, on which he’d burned black candles.”

“What does it mean, burning a black candle?”

“It can’t mean anything good,” Ehrengraf said. “He was entirely obsessed with you. The police found notebooks filled with letters he wrote to you but never sent. They found little stories of his. Fantasies, really, in which you were a principal player.”

“I read about them.”

“But the press couldn’t reproduce them, because they were relentlessly obscene. And violent as well — in some of his writings you were abused and tortured and murdered, while in others you were the villain, having your way with men or women and dispatching them horribly once you were done with them.”

“How awful.”

“In one particularly inventive episode,” Ehrengraf recalled, “you and Cheryl Plumley were lesbian lovers, and the two of you impaled a young woman upon a sharpened stake and made love while she slowly bled to death. Your victim is referred to only as Patsy, but her description is that of poor Patricia Munk.”

“I never had any idea. I’d forgotten him, and I assumed he’d forgotten me. It’s harrowing to think I could have played that sort of unwitting role in his personal mythology.” She drew a breath. “I guess we’ll never know how he managed to do what he did. Putting Cheryl in the Kuhldreyer house, planting incriminating material in my home. It’s amazing he worked it all out, let alone carried it off.”

“It’s unfortunate,” Ehrengraf said, “that he’s not able to give an account of his actions. It pains me to say it, but I blame myself.”

“You? But why, Mr. Ehrengraf?”

“When my investigations began to bear fruit,” he said, “I should have gone straight to the police. But one hesitates to do so while the possibility of innocence still exists. And so I’m afraid I had a conversation with Mr. Pleskow. I hoped to secure information without divulging any myself, but I fear I left him aware that he was under suspicion. And thus, after I left him—”

“He took the easy way out.”

Easy, thought Ehrengraf, may not have been the most appropriate word for Whitley Pleskow’s fitful little dance at the end of a rope. But he let it go.

“In a sense,” Ehrengraf said, “he may be said to have done us a favor. Some unscrupulous defense attorney could have turned the courtroom into a circus arena. Why, for all we know Pleskow could have fabricated an alibi, could have chipped away at the mountain of evidence against him. But his final act, bolstered by a suicide note in his own hand, removes all doubt. While we may now know precisely how he brought it off, we know that the triple homicide on Woodbridge Avenue was his work and his work alone. Cheryl Plumley is entirely innocent. And so, my dear Ms. McClintock, are you.”

Her hand fastened on his arm. “Mr. Ehrengraf,” she said, not quite purring. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

Ehrengraf, waiting for his client to return from the lavatory, tried to remember what he’d paid for the leather sofa. Whatever the price, it had been money well spent. And it seemed to him that the piece of furniture improved with use, as if it were seasoned like a fine meerschaum pipe by the sport conducted upon it.

“That was lovely,” Maureen McClintock said upon her return. “But I still owe you a fee, and I’m sure it must be a substantial one, because you deserve no less.”

Ehrengraf named a figure.

The woman’s face fell. “It’s about what I expected,” she said, “and I’d write a check for the full amount, and even tag on a bonus. But—”

“But you’re in no position to do so.”

“I’m solvent,” she said, “and I’ve always been able to meet my expenses. But I’ve never been able to put money aside, and I don’t have any reserves to draw upon.”

“Ah,” said Ehrengraf. “My dear Ms. McClintock, you have an asset of which you may not be aware.”

“Oh?”

“You have a story, Ms. McClintock. A very valuable story. And I’m acquainted with a woman who can help you share it with the world.”

Nan Fassbinder sat back in the red leather chair and crossed her long legs at the ankle. “I’ve never been involved in anything like this,” she said. “I’ve hunted for le mot juste , and the best I can come up with is fandango .”

“Isn’t that a dance?”

“A Spanish dance,” she said. “Figuratively, it has several meanings. According to Wikipedia, where I looked it up just hours ago, it may mean a quarrel, a big fuss, or a brilliant exploit.”

“And when you use it now—”

“A brilliant exploit, of course. I’m in awe.”

“Well,” said Ehrengraf.

“I’m also hugely grateful,” she said. “I have to thank you for Cheryl Plumley and Maureen McClintock. The publisher’s over the moon, you know. Two women, both of them wonderfully articulate and deliciously attractive, and each with a gripping story to tell. And of course the two stories reinforce one another, and anyone who reads one of the books is impelled to reach for the other.”

“Which can only be good for all concerned.”

“Good for the publisher, who’ll sell a ton of books. Good for Cheryl and Maureen, both of whom are getting media coaching even as we speak. They’re competitive, but in a good way, and they can’t wait to chase separately around the country on their book tours, with a few joint appearances in major cities as a highlight.”

“I suspect they’ll be good at it.”

“No kidding,” Nan Fassbinder said. “So it’ll be good for them, and I guess it’ll be good for you, because the advances they got enabled them to pay for your services.”

“Almost beside the point,” Ehrengraf said. “Still, one does like to be adequately compensated for one’s efforts.”

“And good for me, Martin. May I call you Martin?”

“Of course, my dear Nan.”

“Good for me, because I’ll do very well as the co-author of both of these books, and if they’re as successful as I think they’ll be, it’ll boost my stock for future projects. You might say I owe you a debt of gratitude, Martin.”

“No more than the one I owe you, Nan.”

“Hmmm,” she said. “You know, both of those women speak very highly of you, Martin. And I got the definite impression that it was more than your legal acumen that they appreciated.”

“Oh?”

“That sofa,” Nan Fassbinder said. “Can it possibly be as comfortable as it looks?”