Howard Engel - The Cooperman Variation

“I’m a friend of Vanessa Moss, whom you probably know as-”

“I know, I know, I know. Is Stella at the cottage?”

“No, she’s in Los Angeles. She asked me to see how you’re getting on,” I lied.

“Well, that won’t take long. They keep telling me that my time here’s run out; they want to move me, but I can’t see how they can do that with all of these tubes running in and out of me.”

I couldn’t argue with that. He didn’t look as though he would ever travel again. His brown skin was as grey as death itself. I didn’t want him to read that in my face, so I stooped and retrieved the magazine. I put it down on the moveable table that straddled the bed.

He glanced at the magazine cover. “I once went to visit his house at Clouds Hill in Devon,” he said.

“Whose house?”

“Lawrence’s, of course. Tiny, nearly windowless place, hardly room to feed visitors. He sat the G.B. Shaws outside and fed them alfresco. Fed all his visitors that way. Okay for Shaw and Charlotte: they could munch on carrots. But what about Churchill? I can’t see him putting up with the muck Lawrence lived on. Lawrence couldn’t stand the smell of cooking. He sustained life on tinned fish, I think. But the Shaws knew better than to expect a banquet. I met the lad-one of the lads-he died trying to save, you know.”

I tried to show some interest. As he talked, he was rubbing his blanket between his thumb and forefinger. Perhaps there was a lurking memory of real blanket fuzz. He wouldn’t find any in these blankets. Ed Patel continued with his story: “There were two of them, on bikes, riding abreast even though they were told not to. Lawrence came on them as he reached the top of a hill and ran his Brough off the road to avoid hitting them. Saved their lives at the cost of his own. He lingered for nearly a week, never regained consciousness. That’s the way to go, eh?”

“I guess it is,” I said lamely.

“Not like this with all these pipes and tubes showing what’s not working inside.”

“Is there anything I can get you?”

“I don’t suppose you have a copy of The Seven Pillars with you? Or even Revolt in the Desert , I reckon. Oh, well. What about a Perry Mason mystery? There aren’t many of them I haven’t read. But now my memory’s so poor, I can read them all over again. What did you really come for? I won’t remember your name, most likely, but you might tell me just to humour me.”

I did that, and he nodded while trying to boot his memory to receive and store the information.

“Is Stella in trouble? What can I do?”

“She thinks that there might be somebody trying to kill her,” I said.

“And she’s made a heap of enemies at that city job of hers.”

“You don’t miss much.”

“I’ve got the mentality of a small-town lawyer because that’s what I am. In other words, I’m a snoop. But I’m getting behind. I used to enjoy being in the thick of things. I once had four federal cabinet ministers at my dining-room table. Bet you don’t believe that. It wasn’t planned, it just turned out that way. My cottage was always like that, especially when Lilly was alive. Everybody loved Lilly.” He seemed to drift into a reverie, thinking of the absent Lilly, and I let him.

“Stella’s dad and I were fishing buddies. Saved my life at least twice. Both times in fast water.”

“What do you know about Dermot Keogh?” I asked. He blinked at the change of subject.

“Fine gentleman. A bit wild, maybe, but solid, if you know what I mean. He could separate the serious from the frivolous when he had to.”

“What was he to you?”

“He was a neighbour. For two years I didn’t know he was famous. He’d never tell me.”

“He shared your interest in old motorcycles, I believe?”

“He was a collector. Had a fine Brough. And a Crocker. They’re getting scarce.”

“Would you know all the Brough collectors?” He nodded, quickly. There can’t have been that many. “Does the name Bob Foley ring a bell?”

“Foley? Foley? Yes-s-s. He used to drive Dermot around. Only man Dermot would allow behind a wheel. Stella had no use for him. She’d wince when his name came up. Scared of him, I think. He had an appetite for bikes, though, but he didn’t own any. He was just hungry. Collecting bikes is not a poor man’s game. Not any more.”

“What happened to Dermot’s collection?”

“He left ’em to a British collector name of Horwood. Sir Harry Horwood. Very fine collection. It’s all spelled out in the will.”

“How did you meet Dermot Keogh? You said he was a neighbour?”

“Neighbour, friend, fellow music-lover. Fellow at the marina introduced him to me. He invited me to dinner that same day. We exchanged books and drank a lot of Scotch together. Also Irish, bourbon, rye and a few other things. Once we canoed down the Indian River singing ‘I Am the Walrus’ at the tops of our voices. Damned silly that he should be dead, I’ll tell you. It’s a great loss. I liked the man, Mr.- See, I told you I’d forget.”

“Cooperman,” I prompted. “Did you do any legal work for him?”

“Not much. That city fellow, Raymond Whatshisname, did all the fancy stuff. I wouldn’t know where to begin on those complicated recording and film contracts. No, I stick to the simple staples of a small-town attorney’s practice: conveyancing of real property, wills, torts and a little domestic work. It’s provided me with a good living for over forty years. I can’t complain. I’ve enjoyed the work. Setting something going that would get out of bed and turn itself on in the morning. Know what I mean? Like that palliative care unit I set up. It’ll still be doing good deeds when I’m gone too. Once set up a puppy farm too. Manitoulin Island. Wonder how it’s getting on.”

“When did you give Vanessa the keys to your place?”

“She’s got my keys, and I have a set of hers. We look after one another up here, young fellow. Evans at the marina, he’s got keys too. He sees to our roofs in winter; gets ’em cleared if the snow’s heavy. Alma had keys too, just in case.”

“Alma?”

“Alma Orchard. My secretary. Runs-I should say ran -my offices for me. She met with a tragic accident this spring. And I couldn’t even get out of here to go to Croft’s Funeral Home, and it’s just across the street from here. Big house on the corner. Lots of big houses end up as funeral homes in a town like this. Dying’s a thriving business. That and used cars.”

“When would that have been, Mr. Patel?”

“Call me Ed. Everybody does now, now that Alma’s gone. Could never get her to ease off on formality. You’d think that formality was the only thing that kept that woman hooked together. She died second Monday in May. They didn’t find her until Wednesday. Poor Alma. All those years of filing and writing the numbers of cases in a ledger.”

“Does the name ‘Bowmaker’ mean anything to you?”

“Not a thing. Unusual name, though,” he said, trying to lift himself higher on the bed. I helped him. He weighed nothing at all.

“What about Renata Sartori?”

“Ah, the murder victim! Yes, I knew Renata. Dermot was very close to her. She would have been good for Dermot. Now they’re both gone. And I linger on, temporarily.”

I could see that I was beginning to tire him. That note of sentimentality wouldn’t have crept in normally, I suspected. I made leaving noises, scraping my feet and making the chair squeak on the linoleum. I promised that I would send him a few Erle Stanley Gardners when I next found myself in a bookstore. He waved me off with a forced smile. I navigated my way through the confusing corridors and found my car where I’d left it.