Tuesday, May 6, 2025

The Book Club Murders - Private Eye Excerpt

In my new book, The Book Club Murders, the protagonist reads a hard-boiled detective novel, which causes her to dream she is the detective in the story. Here is the chapter recounting her first of several dreams. 

Jessica looked around the dingy office. Everything, the walls, the floor, and the ceiling, appeared dull and lacked color. The air was stuffy with a slight trace of mold and age. She sat behind an old wooden desk with a few drawers on both sides. On the desktop was a cheap desk set with a blotter, a letter opener, a double pen stand, a letter tray, and a business card holder. She looked at the writing on the card.

Harry Call

Private Investigations

 

    Also on the desk was a tarnished brass tray where a cigarette burned. Two wooden chairs on the opposite side of the desk sat on a threadbare carpet. Against one wall was a four-drawer vertical filing cabinet, and a calendar turned to June 1938 on the opposite wall. The calendar featured the Dionne quintuplets, dressed in matching outfits and lying side-by-side. The ceiling had two water stains, probably the source of the moldy odor. A dirty light fixture containing a few dead bugs hung from the middle of the ceiling. The single window in the office was opened, and street sounds drifted in; car horns honked, brakes squealed, and a traffic cop blew his whistle. Cooking smells from the diner on the corner drifted in the window and reached her nose, making her hungry and nauseous at the same time.

    Jessica saw that she was dressed in a dark blue pinstriped suit, a white shirt, and a dark tie. Behind the desk, a coat rack stood to one side holding a grey fedora with a dark band.

    The door opposite the desk had pebbled glass on the upper half. On the other side of the door was an outer office. Jessica heard muffled voices and saw movement through the pebbled glass. The door opened, and Jessica’s secretary entered and closed the door behind her. The secretary looked a lot like Brittany from the book club. She was dressed quite plainly in a tan dress that reached past her knees. The secretary displayed very little jewelry or makeup and wore horn-rimmed glasses, lending her a studious look.

    “What is it, Ruthie?” Jessica asked.

    “A client,” Ruthie said, trying not to smirk.

    “Let’s have her.”

    “How do you know it’s a woman, Harry?”

    “From that grin on your puss. Come on, let’s have her.”

    “Prepare yourself.” Ruthie turned, opened the door, and ushered in the woman. 

    The woman who entered the office was tall, sleek, and angular. Her appearance was a welcome contrast to the drab office. She wore a fitted burgundy pencil dress with peplum, and upon her head, she sported a matching velvet turban beret with a veil. Her pale skin was sharply contrasted by the red lipstick she wore. The woman smelled terrific, and her perfume fought against the room’s stale air. She had class, with enough money that it showed, but not so much that she cared about it. 

    “Mrs. Van Pelt,” Ruthie announced in her most professional tone.

    Mrs. Van Pelt closely resembled Emily Hudson, the librarian.

    Jessica stood from behind the desk, nodded, and motioned the woman to one of the chairs facing the desk. Mrs. Van Pelt sat, and Jessica wondered how the woman could sit in such a tight dress.

    “I’m Harry Call,” Jessica said. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Van Pelt?”

    Mrs. Van Pelt gave Jessica and the surroundings a cursory glance. She appeared unimpressed by both.

    “I would like to employ you, Mr. Call,” she said with a deep and sultry voice. 

    “Hire me to do what?”

    She donned a somewhat forlorn look, and her eyes moved slightly upward.

    “You must understand, Mr. Call, this is very difficult for me,” she said with a quiver in her throat. “Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. Now that I am here, and must relate my dilemma to another person… I… I don’t know…. It is all so upsetting.” She brought a lace handkerchief to her mouth and stifled a whimper.

    Jessica could see the woman was upset. “May I offer you something to steady your nerves? A drink, perhaps?” Jessica knew there was a bottle in the bottom desk drawer. She did not know how she knew. “Perhaps just a small one,” Jessica said.

    “I really shouldn’t, but…” Mrs. Van Pelt said. Then, she gave a brief nod and crossed her legs. She had nice legs.   

    Jessica opened the drawer and took out a bottle of Canadian Club and a glass. She checked to see if the glass was clean. It was, so she poured a small amount of liquor into it. Jessica rose from her chair and approached Mrs. Van Pelt. She handed the woman the glass, who took it. Mrs. Van Pelt did not sip the drink demurely but threw it back like a seasoned pro.  

    “Thank you, Mr. Call,” she said. “Would you happen to have a cigarette?”

    Jessica reached into her pocket and took out a soft pack of Camels. She offered Mrs. Van Pelt a cigarette. Holding it between the two fingers of her gloved hand, she waited for a light. Jessica took out her Ronson lighter, flicked it, and lit the cigarette. 

    Mrs. Van Pelt drew almost sensually on the cigarette and released smoke into the air through pursed lips. Jessica pushed the ashtray across the desk.

    “Now, Mrs. Van Pelt, tell me what I can do for you.” 

    “I came to you, Mr. Call, because I do not know what else to do,” she said, with desperation in her voice. “I did not know who to turn to. It is all so upsetting, and I must admit, somewhat embarrassing.”

    “It may be easier, Mrs. Van Pelt, if you start with something less embarrassing. Tell me about yourself. What’s your background?”

    The woman saw the practicality in this and began her narrative. 

    “My late husband, Rufus Van Pelt, died two years ago and left me fairly well-off, plus a lovely manor upstate. I soon found that after my husband passed away, my life grew quite lonely. I discovered that many of the friends I thought I had were, in fact, friends of my late husband. Once he was gone, they all but abandoned me. Just recently, a new man came into my life—Walter Henderson. He was new to the area, but I found him quite handsome and charming. I confess I was lonely and moved too quickly. Walter nearly swept me off my feet. I began inviting him to the manor house on weekends. Everything was kept above board, let me assure you.”

    She wanted the detective to know that she had not allowed herself to be compromised in any way. For some reason, she must have believed it was important, as if she were preserving her integrity as a woman. Mrs. Van Pelt looked away, took a deep breath, and continued.  

    “Little by little, Walter grew more familiar with the house, my car, and the servants. I, rather foolishly, allowed this. I convinced myself we were in love, and I was blind to wherever Walter was concerned. Sometimes, his behavior caused me much distress, but unfortunately, there was no one in whom I could confide. I have no brothers or sisters, and I lost my parents when the SS Morro sank in 1934 on its journey from Havana to New York. When they died, my inheritance was considerable.

    “I believed Walter loved me, and we often spoke of marriage. Two days ago, Walter left my house rather abruptly without saying anything to me. I soon learned the reason for his hasty departure. Missing from my jewel case was a diamond necklace my husband had given me several years ago. The necklace is worth over ten thousand dollars. 

    Jessica pursed her lips and blew a silent whistle. 

    “I was able to follow Walter’s trail here,” Mrs. Van Pelt continued. “I believe he plans on selling my necklace for cash.”

    “And you do not want to involve the police,” Jessica said. 

    “No, I do not. Walter may be a thief, but I do not wish to see him end up in jail. Despite everything he has done, I am afraid I still have feelings for him.”

    “So, you want me to find him and return the necklace to you.”

    “Precisely so, Mr. Call.”        

    “What if Henderson has already hocked… I mean, sold the necklace?”

    “Oh, dear,” she said, bringing two fingers against her cheek. “Well, I suppose if you could recover the money, I might be able to buy back the necklace. It is quite precious to me.”

    “Do you happen to have a photograph of Walter Henderson?”

   She reached into her small handbag, removed a photograph, and handed it to Jessica. The photograph showed Mrs. Van Pelt and Henderson posing for a picture at what appeared to be a nightclub. She had an enigmatic smile while he looked a little worse for drink. They posed close together, practically cheek to cheek. Henderson had dark features with a pencil-thin mustache. 

    “It might take some effort getting the necklace away from him. Is Henderson prone to violence?”

    Mrs. Van Pelt thought about this. “I never considered him dangerous, though I more than once saw him carrying a handgun. I asked him about it, and he said he carried it for protection. I am not so naive, Mr. Call, to believe Walter is completely upstanding, especially considering that he stole my necklace. I can only caution you that if you encounter him, be extremely careful. I would not like to see you hurt on my account.”

    Jessica considered this. “And you are certain Walter Henderson is in the city.”

    “They told me at the train station that he bought a ticket, and this was his destination.”

    “It might be difficult to find him in a city this size.”

    She gave a brief start as if now only remembering something. Reaching back into her handbag, she extracted a small piece of paper. She handed it to Jessica, saying, “I found this in Walter’s room.”

    It was a page torn from a small notebook. The writing on the paper was in block letters. It simply read: HELEN S DELECOURT STREET HOTEL.

    “I was going to go there myself,” she said. “Then I reconsidered and decided to hire you. I hope I did the right thing, Mr. Call.”

    “I am sure you did. Now, Mrs. Van Pelt, the only other thing we have to discuss is my fee.” Harry Call gave his client one last assessment. “My services go for twenty dollars a day plus expenses.” It was his ‘rich client rate’.

    Mrs. Van Pelt stared across the desk for several seconds. She reached into her handbag again and this time took out some money. She placed it on the desk.

    “Here is one hundred dollars. I trust that is sufficient for the time being.”

    Jessica stood, picked up the money, and pocketed it. 

    “And where can I contact you, Mrs. Van Pelt?”

    “I am staying at the Bentley. Room 101.”

    “All right, Mrs. Van Pelt. You will be hearing from me in a day or two,” Jessica said, standing.

    Mrs. Van Pelt rose as well and extended her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Call. I feel already that some of this weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I will be anxious to hear from you.”

    Jessica shook her hand affirmingly. She opened the office door and showed Mrs. Van Pelt out. The woman passed by closely. Her perfume was intoxicating.

    After Mrs. Van Pelt had left, Jessica turned to Ruthie and asked, “Well, what do you think of her?”

    Ruthie raised her eyebrows and appeared wide-eyed. “She’s a piece of work and no mistake. You better watch your step around her, Harry.”

    Jessica grinned, entered her office, and grabbed her hat. She told Ruthie that she would be going out and that Ruthie was to hold down the fort.

    “I will, Harry. You be careful.”

    Harry Call pointed at his secretary with the gunman’s salute and made a clicking sound between clenched teeth.

    The private detective walked down the three flights instead of taking the elevator. Harry Call passed through the small atrium where a compass design decorated the floor and ceiling. He passed through the door and out onto the pavement. It was mid-afternoon and sunny, though the tall buildings were beginning to shade the west side of the street.

    Instead of hailing a cab, Harry walked the four blocks to Bleeker and Porter, hoping to find Shakes, one of Harry’s more reliable snitches. Shakes was standing outside a bar on Bleeker Street, smoking a cigarette. Shakes looked a lot like Taylor Pinsky. He was short and quick in his ways, like a ferret, and dressed in a tweed jacket with a matching cap. Harry approached Shakes, who looked up and down the street to see if anyone was watching. The small man raised his cigarette to his mouth with fingers that trembled. Without a word of greeting, Shakes went into the bar. Harry waited a half a moment and followed. They sat in a booth at the back where they could talk privately. They sat in silence until the bartender came to their table.

    “Two whiskey sours,” Harry said.

    Wordlessly, the bartender left but soon returned and placed their drinks on the table. Behind the bar, he stood polishing glasses.

    Harry and Shakes raised their drinks.

    “Health,” said Harry.

    “L’chaim!” Shakes said. 

    They drank. Shakes’s hand trembled so much that he almost spilled his drink. While they spoke, they kept their voices low. Shakes rarely made eye contact with Harry as his gaze bounced around the room. He was anxious about being overheard or even seen talking to Harry.

    Harry leaned across the table and said, “I need you to find out if anyone is trying to unload a diamond necklace. Check only the best fences, no small time. Also, find out anything you can on Walter Henderson. And one last thing, I need the background on Mrs. Rufus Van Pelt from somewhere Upstate.”

    Shakes nodded. “A sawbuck.”

    “Ten? Don’t you know we’re in a depression? A fin,” Harry countered.

    Shakes shook his head. “Ten bucks.”

    “I’ll give you a fin now and another five when you give me all the information.”

    Shakes nodded, and Harry handed over a five-dollar bill.”

    Shakes snatched up the money and put it in his breast pocket. He downed his drink and left. 

    There was a payphone on the wall in the bar. The telephone started to ring. Harry looked at the phone and then at the bartender standing behind the bar, polishing a glass. The two men looked at one another. The telephone continued to ring.

     Harry addressed the bartender, “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

 

All of Stephen Gaspar's books can be found on Amazon!