Jan Burke - Liar

“Accounting? Why?”

“Surely someone will be mailing a check to him?”

“Didn’t your aunt tell you? He donates his time. It’s so good of him. In libraries that are facing severe budget cutbacks-and most California libraries are-children’s programs often suffer. He helps us to keep the kids interested in reading without sacrificing book budgets. We’re very grateful to him.”

While trying to absorb that piece of information, I pressed on. “Ms. Longworth, as you’ve probably figured out, my cousin and I haven’t been in touch lately.” I paused. Lately. The past quarter century or so. I shook that off. “I just want to let him know what has happened to his mother. How did the library get in touch with him?”

“Well, I was going to suggest this a moment ago. Are you on-line?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then you could send him e-mail.”

“He’s on the Internet?”

“Yes. That’s how we put in our request and verified all the arrangements. Let me look it up.” I heard her tapping on a keyboard. “Here it is.” She spelled it out for me. “Cosmo, with a capital c, o-s-m-o, at g-e-o-k-e-r-b-y dot com.”

I wrote it as she spoke. Cosmo@geokerby.com.

I had thought of Cosmo as a magician’s name, or something sort of New Age, until I saw it coupled with that Internet domain name. “George Kerby?” I asked. “As in George and Marion Kerby?”

“Yes, the ghosts in the film Topper. Remember it? Cary Grant played George Kerby. Lord, he was handsome. I love that film, don’t you?”

“Yes…” But I was distracted, thinking not of Cary Grant, but of Roland Young’s role as Cosmo Topper, a meek businessman beleaguered by the Kerbys’ ghosts.

She went on to say that she had learned of him through the recommendations of other librarians on a children’s librarians’ Internet list, and would post a message to that list to ask if Cosmo was booked to appear at other libraries anytime soon.

I thanked her and gave her my phone number and e-mail address at the Express.

So my cousin managed to travel all over the state and donate his time to libraries while my aunt lived a spartan existence in San Pedro. He had taken on the name of a character in a movie, a rather bumbling businessman pestered by two mischievous phantoms who couldn’t quite get used to the idea of being dead.

Who had Travis become?

I left the house a little earlier than planned, stopped by the paper to send an e-mail message to him. As I passed the security desk, Geoff, the guard, motioned to me to wait as he finished a call. Nobody at the Express has ever been able to tell me Geoff’s age, and he only smiles and shakes his head if he’s asked directly. He’s probably well over seventy years old, and while I wouldn’t expect him to wrestle anyone to the ground, he’s got plenty of good sense-which means he does just fine at his job.

“Something happened while you were out,” he said, “and you’ve got to know about it, but I hope to heaven you won’t blame it on me.”

I waited.

“I took my lunch break,” he said, “and someone from the mailroom watched the desk while I was gone. Supposedly watched, I should say. Well, you know how careless those boys can be.”

Since Geoff was liable to refer to any other male as a boy, I did not assume that some youngster had been left to guard the foyer of the Express. “I suppose you checked the tape?”

I wasn’t sticking my neck out there. Geoff was famous for reviewing security tapes made during his breaks. He was seldom satisfied with the work done by those sent to relieve him.

“Yes, I sure did,” he said. “And I saw something that made me ask that boy a few questions. Look here.”

He pointed to one of his video screens, one that was dark. He pressed a button, and the screen lit up as a tape played. A grainy black-and-white image of the lobby appeared, with the security desk near the bottom of the frame. I smiled to notice that the “boy” from the mailroom staff was in his forties. Today’s date appeared in small white letters in the lower left corner; the time marker showed that this segment had been taped at just after one o’clock.

“What’s he reading?” I asked Geoff.

“He claimed it was something called a manga” Geoff said, with an expression of disdain. “But it was really some Japanese comic book. Now watch here-see that?”

On the screen, a tall, well-built man wearing jeans and a windbreaker entered. His dark baseball cap was pulled down low, but he also kept his head down and turned slightly to one side. I could see why Geoff found this worth noting.

“Doesn’t want his face to be seen by the camera,” I said.

“Sure doesn’t. Look where he stands.”

At the security desk, the man turned his back to the camera, standing slightly to the side of the desk, not approaching it at the front as most would do. He did not slouch or lean against it; the man’s posture was- although not rigid-somehow reminiscent of those who were more used to giving than receiving orders.

Another person came gliding into the frame. I recognized this one. Our society columnist. “Margot Martin,” I said.

Geoff nodded.

The camera saw Margot clearly assessing the man while he apparently spoke to the temporary guard-who barely glanced up from his comic book. Although there was no soundtrack on the tape, actions spoke as plainly as words-if not more so. Margot said something and the man turned his attention to her, still keeping his face from the camera. Margot moved closer and the guard seemed to enter the conversation.

“Now watch,” Geoff said, narrating. “Margot gives the mailroom boy a sour look. And there-see? She takes the other fellow’s arm and walks outta here practically licking her whiskers.”

I smiled. “Geoff, if Margot is meeting men in the lobby, that’s her business.”

“Oh, no. Not this time. I asked my comic-book-reading friend who this fellow was, especially since the fellow was acting a little suspicious. He says he don’t know, he didn’t even get the fellow’s name.” Geoff sighed, then went on. “The boy says the fellow in the cap came in here asking if you were in.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Were you expecting anybody?”

“No.” I looked at the monitor again.

“It didn’t look like Frank to me,” Geoff said. “Besides, he wouldn’t have gone off with Margot.”

“Frank’s in Idaho,” I said absently. I couldn’t identify the man who appeared on the tape.

“Oh, well, I knew it wasn’t Frank. I asked this old boy what had happened. He said the fellow come in asking for you, and before he can even ask the fellow for his name, Margot Martin lays her peepers on him and says, ”Miss Kelly is gone for the day, is there something I can help you with?“”

“What?!”

He nodded. “Flabbergasting, ain’t it?”

Maybe not, I thought. “I suppose he was good-looking?”

Geoff rubbed his hand over his face and said, “Well-I didn’t get much of a description out of my so-called helper, but I suppose the fellow probably was, because Margot is durned man-hungry, but she’s not without refinement. She wouldn’t just walk out of here with anybody.”

“The man seemed perfectly willing to go with her.”

“Yes, my replacement said that the fellow was smiling, seemed happy to make her acquaintance. I guess Mr. Funny Papers finally figured out that your guests ought to be directed to you and he tried to stop Margot, but old Margot just gave him that sour look and then told the gent she’d take him to you personal.”

“Take him to me?” Once again, it was, as Geoff had said, flabbergasting.

“The mail clerk said he figured if she could take him to you, you and Margot were friends. I told him you weren’t enemies, but you weren’t great pals, either.”