The Million Dollar Detective (1)
Chapter One When Meredith met Bart for the first time, he was completely naked. The timing could not have been more split-second perfect. He had just dropped his shorts but not yet picked up his swim trunks when Meredith followed Sheila and Sheila's entourage of tiny dogs into the room. Sheila said, "Oh!" but did not look away. Meredith said nothing, only raised her eyebrows slightly, and did not look away. The tiny dogs (all Pomeranians) yipped excitedly. At first, Meredith thought maybe Sheila had hired a male stripper to entertain her guests. The very tall, very muscular man in front of her could certainly make an indecent living at it. But a stripper at a pool party seemed somehow redundant. The women were hardly more dressed than he was. Sheila, all bright blond and lovely curves, wore a patriotic American flag bikini, hoping, she said, to make all the men salute her. Meredith, more honey colored in hair and complexion, wore a bright yellow bikini. The two were so close in height and shape that they happily shared each other's wardrobes. Bart's gaze swept the women briefly before he turned around and smoothly pulled on his swim trunks, giving the ladies only a moment to admire his muscular backside and exchange appreciative glances. He turned to face the women again, redness in his ears and cheeks testifying to his embarrassment, and said, "Sheila. How can I help you?" "Bart," Sheila said, "we came to get some eyeshadow from Meri's purse. It has glitter!" Meredith considered her eyes her best feature, and had wanted to make them especially sparkly. Sheila loved the effect and begged to try it. But now Meredith looked sideways at Sheila. She knew perfectly well her bag was in the bedroom across the hall. She had dutifully followed the leader, expecting Sheila, perhaps distracted by a breath of wind, as sometimes happened, to show her something interesting in this other room. Well, that had in fact worked out. Sheila put her hands on her hips and demanded of Bart, "What are you doing in the women's changing room?" Meredith gently nudged Sheila with an elbow and pointed at the open door. There a large sign, in Sheila's own neat calligraphy, loudly proclaimed: "MEN." "But," Sheila said and stopped. She started again, "Oh, no. Are you going to accuse me of getting lost in my own house? You'll tease me about this forever, won't you?" Meredith replied in her loftiest, most aristocratic British accent, "Indeed, that is a distinct possibility." In a less affected British accent, she continued, "But your house is so large you practically need a GPS system to navigate about in it." Sheila squinted suspiciously at her, then at Bart, then back at Meredith again. Bart cleared his throat and said to Meredith, "Ah, hello. I'm Bartholomew Manning." This must be the Bart Sheila had been going on about earlier. But Sheila had not told her his full name. Meredith's lips quirked up in a small smile and she said, "'Bartholomew?' Does your mother bear you a grudge?" An expression of pain briefly rippled over his face. "No, I'm pretty sure she loved me. She died several years ago," he explained. Meredith's smile faded, replaced by honest sympathy. "Oh, I am dreadfully sorry," she said. His expression now a rueful smile, he said, "My mom always said she was under the influence of powerful drugs when the nurse asked what she wanted to name me." He tilted his head. "You must be the mysterious Merry Death Sheila mentioned." Meredith tried to shoot indignation out of her eyes for this impertinence. "Are you daft? It's Mereh-dith, thank you very much. And I hardly find myself mysterious a-tall." Sheila jumped in to try to smooth things out. "It's my fault. The mysterious part, at least. I wanted to lure Bart to the party, and I thought the best way would be to appeal to his curiosity. I just told him 'Meredith is gorgeous, brilliant, et cetera' (I actually said 'et cetera'), and said nothing else." She was evidently quite proud of her restraint. Meredith said, "Sheila, I'm amazed. I hope you didn't injure yourself." "I know!" Sheila said. "Can you believe it? I kept my mouth shut? I thought I was going to herniate something. But I knew the mystery would draw him in. He's the world's greatest detective, you know." "Sheila!" Bart turned his palms up plaintively. "I've told you a thousand times, I am not the world's greatest detective. I personally know dozens who are better." "All your clients say you are the greatest," Sheila fired back. "Not all," Bart insisted. "Some have been dissatisfied. Some have even sued me." Meredith pursed her lips, then said, "I note, however, that you tacitly admit some of your clients do say you are the world's greatest detective." Bart took a beat before replying. "Did you just say 'tacitly' in a real conversation? Okay," he conceded, "some clients may say silly things about me. But they're just trying to rationalize paying my exorbitant fee." "Don't listen to him, Meri, it's false humility," Sheila said. "He knows he's great at what he does. He knows he's great, period. Look at him, standing there all handsome and muscles everywhere. This is not a humble man. Remember how he was displaying himself when we came in." "'Displaying!?' You barged in here!" Bart complained. He stared at Sheila with a look of affronted innocence. She made a face at him that said clearer than words, Oh, what are you gonna do? Spank me? She'd probably enjoy that. Meredith said, "Hmm. Sheila was not as reticent about you, Bart. She said you live in this neighborhood--" "That's right," Sheila interrupted. "He lives right over there. Or maybe over there." She pointed two different directions. Bart pointed in yet a third direction and said, "It's more over there. I'm across the street and two doors down. Or two gates down." Meredith said, "This is a rather expensive neighborhood." The neighborhood to which she referred was in West Bloomfield, Michigan, one of a cluster of wealthy suburbs in Oakland County, north and west of Detroit. "And I was wondering how a detective, even a very good one, though perhaps not quite the world's greatest, could afford to live here." Bart replied, "Why, by overcharging my clients, of course." Sheila must have heard this joke before, but giggled anyway. Meredith smiled politely. "What do you do for a living, Meredith?" Bart asked. "Or do you sponge off your parents like Sheila?" "Bart!" Sheila protested. The protest died there, since she did in fact sponge off her generous parents. On a few occasions she had tried to start businesses of her own, all of them unintentionally nonprofit. Meredith answered, "I work for the Ford Motor Company." Bart repeated, "'Fo-ahd Mo-tah.' I have to ask, are you British? You have an intriguing accent." "Indeed?" she said. "Technically, no, I'm not British. I was born here in America--Dearborn, Michigan, in point of fact. Then my father was transferred to Britain when I was very young. He also works for the Ford Motor Company. I spent much of my childhood in England, and learned a variety of accents there. Father transferred back when I was in my teens. That's when I met Sheila. We attended school together. I had quite mastered an American accent by graduation, but then I went to university in England, and back came the old ways of speech. I joined the company there, and was myself recently transferred here. As an added complication, my mother is French. There's no telling what may happen with my accent, I'm afraid." "I like it when you say Britishy things like 'indeed' and 'went to university,'" Bart said. "I'm a little surprised you work for the same company as your father, though. Most big corporations frown on that." Meredith frowned at him, partly for the word "Britishy," but mostly for the silliness of his last comment. Before she pointed out his error, he said, "Oh, wait a minute. Ford is a family company, isn't it? What was I thinking?" He shook his head at his own foolishness. Ironically, this struck Meredith as evidence of intellectual confidence. She had known too many genuine fools, often with advanced degrees or decades of experience, who were too insecure to ever admit their own foolishness, no matter how inconsequential in nature. Bart said, "So, you work in Dearborn at the headquarters? Do you live there, or near here?" "I have quite a nice flat in Birmingham, though I do spend entirely too much time driving on Southfield Highway." Southfield Road ran from Birmingham in the north down to Dearborn, turning into expressway partway there. With heavy traffic and with construction season still under way, it was a wearying commute. [Author's note: In Michigan, the seasons are construction season and winter.] Sheila suddenly recalled the ladies' mission. She said, "Oh, I do want to try your eyeshadow, Meri. I think it would look fantastic on me, don't you?" "Yes, indeed, it would look splendid," Meredith agreed. As Sheila made to renew her search for the women's changing room, she tossed out, "Nice seeing you, Bart." When he returned her a doleful look and Meredith unsuccessfully tried to suppress a snicker, she said, "I didn't mean it that way. Well, actually, that was kind of nice. Actually, I've dreamed about seeing you that way for years and years. You know, Meri, he could have me anytime he wants. He could ravish me right here, right now. I've had a crush on him since we first met, when he babysat for me. But that's the problem. He babysat for me, now he thinks he's my big brother or something. But we're not biologically related. It would be perfectly legal for him to have his way with me. But he won't even consider it. And I ask you, how can he turn this down?" She waved her two hands at her own bikini-clad body, tanned (every inch), well-toned, and topographically everything a healthy heterosexual male should desire in the female form. Meredith said, with mock seriousness, "Well, maybe there's something wrong with him." Sheila put a hand on her arm and said defensively, "Oh, no, he's really wonderful and very sweet. See, I figure if I can't have him, the next best thing would be to fix him up with my best friend." With genuine affection, Meredith said, "Sheila, darling, that is absolutely staggering generosity." Then she added facetiously, "Of course, you have at least a hundred best friends." "Still, I think there might be sparks between you two." Meredith turned back to Bart, "What do you think, Bartholomew? Are there sparks? Or do you have a big brother complex for me, too? Sheila and I are approximately the same age." Bart spread his hands. "I honestly don't know. Right now, I'm just feeling overwhelmed by the both of you." The women laughed and began to leave again, but Bart called out, "Meredith! Should I ever dredge up the nerve to speak to you again, um, what's your last name?" She allowed a wicked smile to grow. "Didn't Sheila tell you? My full name is Meredith Irene Adler." His widening eyes told her he understood the significance of the name Irene Adler, the name of the woman who had outsmarted Sherlock Holmes. So, apparently he was well read in the historical literature of the detective field, at least. Perhaps he really was more than just a yummy looking boy toy. She turned toward him one more time before walking through the doorway and said, "By the way, Bartholomew--nice package." With an insouciant toss of her honey-gold hair, she sashayed out and closed the door on him. Bart sat heavily on the bed, leaned his chin on his hand, and tried to sweep together the scattered crumbs of his dignity. It was several minutes before he felt anywhere near enough composure to contemplate facing those two women again. Chapter Two Benjy assembled his drum kit in a corner of the pool area by the house. His band needed access to the electrical outlets. He always thought of it as "his band," though his bandmates stubbornly referred to it as "our band." People moved in and out of the house past him continually. Since it was officially a pool party, most gathered near the pool, the overflow spilling out onto the surrounding lawn. A few, just a few, splashed about in the water. Most of the guests stood around chatting or lounging on the patio furniture. Caterers kept a plentiful supply of roast beef, shrimp, cold cuts, breads, cheeses, fruits, etc., etc., available on linen covered buffet tables, while waiters rotated with trays of specially selected hors d'oeuvres. The boss lady said the band could eat as much as they liked, and Benjy drooled over the prospects. Rich people sure knew how to put on a spread. She provided mass quantities of soft drinks as well. If guests wanted harder drinks, she had explained, they had to bring their own, and make sure to take any leftovers home with them, as their hostess had sworn off demon liquor a couple of years earlier. Drugs would not be present, at least not openly so. The boss lady, Sheila, didn't approve, and some guy she warned them about, Bart, apparently had a near religious fanaticism about the subject. Some kind of wannabe narc or something. She had specifically warned the band. "I don't know you guys," she said, "but, you know, musicians have a reputation when it comes to drugs. I don't know if you do them or not, but don't bring them to my party. I don't want trouble with the cops, but especially, for God's sake, especially do not let Bart catch you with drugs." Benjy had said, "Who's this Bart guy? Your bouncer? He gonna, like, kill somebody for holdin'?" The other band members snickered, and made faces at each other, thinking it was all a silly joke. They'd smoke a little or snort a little, but discreetly. Wouldn't want to risk a paycheck making the boss lady mad. She'd scared them, though, by taking the question seriously. "Mmm, no. I don't think he'd actually go as far as to kill anybody just over drugs. He's pretty careful about killing." Did that imply he had killed people before? "But he might beat the crap out of you," she said. "You'll know which one he is. He'll be the biggest guy at the party. And he's a martial arts expert. So, you know, for this one night, just say 'no.'" The musicians looked at each other nervously after that, and discussed turning down the gig. But the money was good, the boss lady was hot, and the idea of a bunch of rich babes like her in bikinis made the guys in the band drool. The lone female in the band (lead vocalist) had visions of rich young guys in speedos. She was dating a mechanic, but said she wouldn't mind upgrading to a studly guy with a portfolio. The boss lady said she had invited about two hundred young, beautiful people, all single, and probably looking for action. That's what you call a target rich environment, Benjy thought. With caterers, waiters, the band, valets, and uninvited guests, the total crowd numbered between three hundred and three hundred fifty. The cost for decorations, food, entertainment, and eventual clean-up must top twenty grand. Benjy shook his head. The boss lady called this a small party, and was already thinking up a theme for her next one. When the monster ducked through the door to the pool area, Benjy thought, Holy crap! That's gotta be him. The monster stepped into a convenient patch of shade out of the traffic pattern, closer to the band, and surveyed the scene. Benjy nudged the lead guitarist and pointed with his chin. The guitar player hissed to Benjy, "Holy crap! That's gotta be him. Whatta we do?" Benjy pointed to a drum case and whispered, "Take that back to the van. And take the long way around the house, man. Don't walk right by him." Benjy stood up straight, and though he was tall, he found his eyes about on the level of Bart's chin. He liked to think of himself as being in good shape, lean and wiry. The monster standing a few steps from him, though, must be six- five or six-six, and was bulked up like a pro wrestler or a body builder. Maybe not as veiny. He'd outweigh Benjy by seventy-five pounds, easy. When he glanced Benjy's way, the drummer said, "Hey, how ya doin'?" Bart said, "Fine. You with the band?" "Yeah, I beat the skins. Hope this crowd likes our kind of music." They looked out at the guests as they continued talking, both paying respect mentally to the scantily clad females. "What kind of music do you play?" Bart asked. "We mix it up--jazz, reggae, punk, ska." Bart ever so casually turned to the musician and conspiratorially asked, "Hey, ya got any weed?" The drummer's heart skipped a beat. "No, man, no. We're clean, Bart." At the mention of his name, the monster came alert instantly and skewered Benjy with a truly intimidating glare. [Author's note: Bart practiced in the mirror, imitating Red Wings captain Steve Yzerman taking face-offs.] "Do I know you?" he growled. His arm and chest muscles rippled as he prepared for possible action. The drummer felt like the red dot of a laser gunsight was shining on his chest. He became acutely aware of the super-sized soda he had finished off while driving to the gig. The liquid seemed determined to burst out of his bladder if that gaze held him much longer. He reflexively put his hands up and answered, "No. Uh, no. The boss lady, the host, she warned us--told us about you. You're like her security guy or somethin', right? I swear we're clean. We got no drugs, man." "She warned you about me, huh?" Bart smiled an evil-looking smile. He relaxed and released the paralyzed man from his gaze. Bart said, "Technically, I'm a guest. But if there's any trouble, I guess I'm her go-to guy. Please pass the word to your bandmates: 'No drugs at this party.'" "Yes, sir." The drummer was surprised to hear himself say "sir" to someone not in a police uniform. "They already know." After a moment, he asked, "Are we cool, then?" "Sure. I've got nothing against musicians who don't use drugs. I'm a big fan of Ted Nugent and Alice Cooper. How late are you playing 'til?" "She said midnight with a couple of breaks. We might do a few encores after that." Bart smiled with his eyes now and told him, "You might want to go slow breaking down your equipment. See if you can stay past one a.m. Trust me, it'll be worth it." "What happens then?" "You'll see. I'm going to go over and mingle, now. Good luck with the show." "Yeah, good to meet you." As Bart ambled off, the drummer quietly said, "Whoo," under his breath. The keyboard player came over and asked, "That the guy she warned us about? He's a freakin' terminator! 'Ah'll be bahk.' Are we safe with him around?" "Yeah," Benjy said, "We're cool. I'm glad he didn't try nothin'. I wouldn't wanna have to hurt him." "Oh, yeah, that's what would happen. You'd hurt him." "Hey, man. Are you forgetting those kung fu lessons I had? I got skills. I can beat on more than drums." His bandmates teased him about his so-called delusions of toughness. But the drummer knew when it came to crunch time, he'd be their go-to guy. Probably best to avoid an altercation with big, bad Bart, though. The boss lady said something about him knowing martial arts, too. Still,
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