Unforced Error Read online

  Unforced Error

  Unforced Error

  A Rep and Melissa Pennyworth Mystery

  Michael Bowen

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright © 2004 by Michael Bowen

  First Edition 2004

  Cover photograph by Harold J. Bowen: “Downtown Kansas City, Missouri from the Liberty Memorial, Looking North.”

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2003115433

  ISBN-10: 1-59058-109-1 Hardcover

  ISBN-13: 978-1-61595-319-6 Epub

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  Poisoned Pen Press

  6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103

  Scottsdale, AZ 85251

  www.poisonedpenpress.com

  [email protected]

  Dedication

  This story is dedicated to Sara Armbruster Bowen, my beloved wife and the only person I know who is smarter than Melissa Seton Pennyworth.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Bibliographical Note

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Author’s Note

  Unforced Error is a work of fiction. The characters appearing in the story do not exist, and the events described did not take place. As a work of the author’s imagination, and by way of emphasizing the fictional character of the story, Unforced Error takes certain liberties with local place names. For example, the author is well aware, from having spent many happy hours as a boy and young man there, that the principal library in Kansas City, Missouri, is the Kansas City Public Library, not the Jackson County Public Library. The latter name was used in an effort to make it as clear as possible that I am making this stuff up.

  It may be helpful to readers not familiar with Kansas City to note one particularly striking characteristic of that municipality: geographically, it is very large. Its population of 435,000 or so is spread over 319 square miles. (Chicago’s area, by contrast, is 228 square miles.) To put this in perspective, if Kansas City had the same population density as its cross-state sister city, St. Louis, it would be home to more than 2,000,000 souls. Hence, the city includes a great deal of open space, and it is possible to drive for a long time without leaving the city limits.

  Prologue

  First degree murder is punishable by death in Missouri, even if the victim is an editor of romance novels.

  When the body turned up Reppert G. Pennyworth would see three excellent reasons to mind his own business, starting there. The death penalty doesn’t come up much in intellectual property work.

  Rep later reflected philosophically on the futility of having three excellent reasons when you need four. But what could he do? Not only was the murder a tough break for the victim, but it interfered with the most interesting copyright issue Rep had seen in a long time.

  Chapter 1

  Peter Damon had known since junior high who got girls like this. And it wasn’t guys like him.

  Violet eyes with a minxish glint worth half a Byron canto. Luminous smile. Ebony hair framing a dusty rose face whose casual perfection reminded him of Uffizzi canvases. Ample breasts that casually mocked the perfunctory effort of her silk blouse to appear demure. Your basic Peter Damon, with his bookish pallor, wispy, light brown hair already retreating from his forehead, oversized ears, and watery blue eyes unkindly magnified by the thick lenses of wire-frame glasses, couldn’t even let himself imagine that a woman like this might be hitting on him.

  He hadn’t imagined anything of the kind when she’d asked to join him at what she claimed was the last available non-smoking table in the Lake Tahoe Holiday Inn Crown Plaza restaurant. He hadn’t imagined it when she’d introduced herself as Lara Teasdale, had guessed correctly that he was here for the librarians’ convention, and had explained that she’d come to teach Power Point presentations to rookie sales reps for Golden State Office Interiors. He had wished, for the only time in his life, that he were a rookie sales rep.

  He hadn’t even imagined it when she’d segued unsubtly from crosswords to hookers.

  “Please don’t let me keep you from your puzzle,” she said, nodding at the twice-folded New York Times beside his plate.

  “It can wait,” Peter said hastily, capping his medium point blue Bic pen and stowing it in his caramel colored corduroy sport coat. “Civil War theme, no biggie. I guess crossword puzzles are an occupational cliché for librarians, aren’t they?”

  “Not necessarily. I’m just an MIS specialist, and words have always fascinated me. ‘Hooker,’ for example.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You mentioned the Civil War and that reminded me. Wasn’t that when the word ‘hooker’ came into American slang?”

  “Oh. Right. Because of all the, uh, er, camp followers with the Army of the Potomac while General Hooker was commanding it.”

  “Exactly,” Teasdale said. “I love neat little connections like that. Like ‘joysticks.’ I remember seeing an ’eighties movie called Joysticks on video, and I’m like, am I the only one who gets this?”

  “Probably not,” Peter said, feeling a crimson burn on the backs of his ears.

  “I mean, they once called the throttles on airplanes ‘joysticks’ because of the phallic association.” She raised an eyebrow in polite interrogation, and Peter nodded: he knew what phallic associations were. “Then when video games appeared, they called the control rods ‘joysticks’ because they looked like the throttles on World War II fighters. Then someone making this B-movie teenage sex comedy revolving around video games thinks ‘joysticks’ is this incredibly clever double entendre, and all they’re doing is going back to the original allusion.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Peter said. “Er, hey, do you travel much for Golden State Office Interiors?”

  “More than I’d like,” Teasdale sighed. “I could draw the basic floor-plan for every hotel chain in the country. It gets very lonely.”

  “I guess it would.”

  “Like tonight,” she added, catching his eyes and lowering her voice. “All I have to look forward to is Sports Center and a hot bath.”

  That’s when Peter began to think the unthinkable. He caught himself holding his breath.

  “That is,” she continued, “unless you’d like to come up and show me how fast you can finish that crossword puzzle while we see if PBS or the History Channel is showing something on the Civil War.”

  Peter forced his lips into a shy smile and made himself meet Teasdale’s gaze.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever talked to,” he said gently. “You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen. But my wife, Linda, means everything in the world to me. It would really hurt her if I were unfaithful. I just coul
dn’t do that.”

  He braced himself for a cold shower of bitchy petulance. He got a wistful smile instead as Teasdale rested her chin on interlaced fingers.

  “Is Linda very lovely?” she asked.

  “Very,” Peter said, meaning relative to the female universe the likes of him had any business thinking about. “She’s lovely, and smart, and committed, and idealistic, and just a very together lady.”

  “She’s also something else,” Teasdale said. “She’s very, very lucky. Please let me get the check.”

  ***

  It was 7:26 p.m., Central Daylight time, when Linda Damon and the twelve million other people watching Reality Check Live! on Fox heard her husband describe her as lovely, smart, committed, idealistic, and very together. Though the night was warm, she pulled the sheet up to cover her breasts as she turned toward the other side of the bed and spoke.

  “I think you’d better go now, Tommy.”

  Chapter 2

  Fortunately, only a handful of the other reactions to Peter Damon’s unintentionally public display of chastity need concern us.

  An aide to Missouri state senator Wade Carlton, for example, thought it important enough to break into a meeting between Carlton and the director of the America’s Petrochemical Future Political Education Fund with a Tivo of the segment and the results of twenty frenetic minutes of Googling.

  “Librarian from Kansas City,” she explained as Carlton replayed the scene. “Civil War hobbyist. Obsessed with networking libraries and public schools interactively through the web. Presented a paper saying if we don’t start getting libraries into kids’ heads and kids’ heads into libraries, we’ll have an entire generation that can’t identify Appomattox.”

  “Where is he on petrochemical issues?” the director asked.

  “Get two ’graphs on this into my speech for the Majority Values Conference and make them sing,” Carlton told the aide. “And have one of the interns find out what Appomattox is.”

  ***

  Then there was Diane Klimchock, Peter’s boss at the Central Branch of the Jackson County, Missouri Public Library.

  “Caught your act on the telly,” she said into his hotel room voice-mail seconds after Fox’s hidden camera had cut to a different attempted seduction. “Aces! Must chat soonest. Late tea sixish Sunday evening? Only a few hours after your return, I know, but pretty please? Ring me back.”

  Klimchock issued this invitation not in plummy accents redolent of Belgravia but with an unmistakably American high plains twang, for she haled from Nebraska and had yet to see the Atlantic Ocean. Anglophilia and Anglomania had dominated her personality since her first exposure to Wuthering Heights, however, and English idioms dating from Evelyn Waugh forward permeated her conversation.

  ***

  Two women in their early twenties sharing an apartment on Sepulveda Boulevard in Los Angeles also watched Peter Damon’s one-hundred seconds of fame with mild interest. The one with long, sexy blond hair was smoking clove, handling her cigarette the way Audrey Hepburn had in Charade. The one with short, sassy blond hair was leafing idly through typescript brad-clipped into a pasteboard binder.

  “What’s the title?” the first asked just before Peter came on.

  “Seven Days in May,” her roomie answered. This wasn’t a projected remake of the Kirk Douglas movie based on Fletcher Knebel’s famous political thriller. In this permutation she’d be reading for the part of May Greene, first woman President of the United States, and she’d have more than a casual interest in the actors who’d be playing General Donald Day and his six brothers.

  Reality Check Live!’s cut to the Teasdale/Damon encounter drew the long-haired thespian’s focus back to the screen. She shifted her smoking technique to Kathleen Turner in Body Heat, for she was a well-rounded student of the cinema. When Peter turned the proposition down, she brought her cigarette to the right side of her mouth and clinched it between her lips through a long, determined pull.

  “Bet I nail him in one week,” she said.

  “Just don’t do it on spec,” her roommate advised.

  ***

  And finally Melissa Seton Pennyworth, newly minted Ph.D in Literature, as it was still called at the proudly old-school university that had conferred her degree, had tuned in. She watched Reality Check Live! strictly in the interests of academic research, the way guys in the ’sixties used to leaf through Playboy for the interviews.

  “Rep, look,” she called to her husband. “That’s Linda Damon’s husband. The guy you’re going to see about your Civil War idea. ”

  “Are you sure?” Rep asked, politely feigning interest as he glanced up from a brochure from Engineered Storage Products Company, manufacturer of Harvestore® silos.

  “I’d know those ears anywhere. I was just checking Linda’s phone number. I’m going to call her tomorrow to let her know what time to expect us when we get to Kansas City next week.”

  “What a remarkable coincidence,” Rep said. And because this isn’t a nineteenth-century gothic novel, no vague sense of foreboding nor tingling premonition of disaster spoiled his foray into the arcana of engineered bolts and Breather Bags®.

  Chapter 3

  Job-one, R. Thomas Quinlan figured about two minutes after Peter Damon’s face disappeared from the screen, was a clean getaway. Time for all that ten-k and marathon training to pay off. Experience nourished a healthy fear of getting brained any second now by a flying ashtray, or whatever the equivalent missile in a non-smoker’s bedroom would be.

  He hopped on his right foot while trying to jam a shoe onto his left. Linda Damon’s bravely-holding-back-the-tears expression and her whimpers about what a shit she was told him that she was already well into the self-loathing stage of adultress’s remorse. All too often with rookies in the infidelity game, it was one short step from disgust to it’s-all-your-fault and blunt objects sailing across the room.

  “How could I do this to him?” Linda blubbered.

  “It’s not your fault,” Quinlan panted. “It’s not a question of fault. I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t have brought the story by tonight.”

  “Especially with wine.”

  “The wine was yours. Chelsea Tuttle sent it especially for you.” Total lie, of course. But then, he reminded himself, Jackrabbit Press was a fiction house.

  “I’m such a shit.” This from a woman for whom damn was a rare vulgarity.

  “You’re not,” a now fully shod Quinlan insisted. “You’re human.”

  “I’ve never done this kind of thing before.” No kidding. “It’s just that I was here by myself while Peter is off at a resort, and it’s the sixth anniversary of the first time we made love and he didn’t mention it—”

  “—and one thing led to another,” Quinlan said helpfully, lapsing into a cliché that Linda would never have tolerated from Chelsea Tuttle.

  Linda started crying like she meant it. Quinlan edged toward the bedroom door.

  “Please don’t cry,” he said.

  “I’ve got to tell Peter,” she sobbed.

  NOOOOOO! DEAR SWEET JESUS NO!

  Spousal confession meant melodrama, maybe even a slap or two. This would expand Linda’s life experience and thus make her an even better editor—but it would make her an even better editor who didn’t freelance for Jackrabbit Press anymore. Even worse, it might lead Peter to some ghastly nineteenth-century geste involving Quinlan. The Civil War replica cavalry saber hanging next to the blue uniforms in Peter’s closet had looked very, very functional to Quinlan. He unconsciously covered his crotch, like a soccer player preparing to defend a penalty kick.

  “No,” he told Linda with calm and tender firmness as he managed to master his panic. “You’ll only hurt him. You love Peter and you’ll always love him. What we did means nothing. It was a fling, for God sakes. An existential accident. A chance collision of horny electrons.”

  Continuing his sidle toward the door, he spotted a bathrobe h
anging from its back. He eased it from its hook and tendered it to Linda, keeping his face discreetly toward the door as he did so.

  “Thank you,” she snuffled as she snatched it.

  “I think I should make you some coffee,” he said.

  “No. Just go. I’m sorry. Please.”

  YESSS!

  “All right. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  He slipped through the doorway. He had nearly reached the bottom of the stairs and was on the verge of breaking into a full sprint when he heard Linda come out of the bedroom.

  “Watch out for the newel capital,” she called. “It’s loose.”

  Although Quinlan had thirteen years’ experience as a professional writer and editor, he’d never been married to Peter Damon—he didn’t have the faintest idea of what a newel capital might be. He turned around, resting his hand on the wooden sphere atop the bottom stairpost.

  “Okay,” he said politely.

  “And wait. You dropped your keyring.” Linda tossed the fistful of metal toward him.

  Jesus, he thought, wondering what malign Iago lurking in his superego had let this Desdemona’s handkerchief slip out of his pocket as he was making his otherwise flawless escape. Lurching to snag the ring, he heard a sound of splintering wood. An instant later he found himself holding the ring in his left hand and the wooden sphere from the stairpost in his right. Lamely, he held the latter up.

  “Newel capital?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Linda said, deflating. “Just put it down there. I guess. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Okay.” He made his voice as gentle as he could. “I’ll call tomorrow.”

  “Shit,” Linda said, to no one in particular.

  Chapter 4

  At five-fifty-eight Sunday evening Diane Klimchock, redolent of Constant Comment and Dunhills, opened the door of her apartment and welcomed the Damons into a parlor—“living room” just wouldn’t do it justice—that evoked sepia-toned photographs. She showed them to a pink settee in front of a low, mahogany table where tea, coffee, and two tiers of pastry and muffins awaited them.