Black Cat Weekly #21

THE GHOST OF EROS, by Eve Fisher-2

“You want him safe, and he acts like a little boy, crazy for mischief.”

Vicky nodded. “And he always will. Someday we won’t be able to catch him in time. And he’ll either die or he’ll have to go into a home and... Oh, God, time’s a beast! It eats up everything. I love Doug. And I’ll do all I can to take care of him. And I will until the end. But I’m so tired. It just goes on and on and on... And, afterwards, there’ll be nothing left. Of him, of me, of us. Nothing... Time is a beast and a bastard, and that’s just the way it is... ”

A knock on the back door made her dry her eyes.

Dante walked in. “How is he?”

“He’ll be fine,” Vicky said. “Home tomorrow. Day after at the latest.”

“That is good. Very good.” Dante sat down and picked up Mateo’s glass. “I have been thinking. He does not want a self-portrait, but if I do the beach, is not that a self-portrait? The pebbles wet and glistening. A storm surge coming, just behind.”

“Right now, Danny boy, the last thing I want to talk about is your artwork,” Vicky growled.

Dante shook his head. “You look tired. You need sleep. Perhaps I can do something to help you there.”

“You cheeky bastard!”

“No, not s*x. Sauna and massage—”

“Get out of here!”

Dante shrugged and left.

* * * *

Doug was back home the next day. For a few days he was quiet, tender and well-behaved.

“Maybe he’s finally gotten his mind right?” Vicky hoped. Dolores shrugged.

Then he began drinking again, at a pace that increased every day and ended only when he passed out.

“Who the hell is bringing him booze?” Vicky raged.

“Señor Ortiz,” Dolores said. “And him.” She pointed at Dante’s cottage. “They do anything he tells them.”

“I’ll settle their hash.”

“He will only find someone else to bring him what he wants.”

“Then let him.”

Vicky slammed into Dante’s and said, “Quit bringing Doug booze or else.”

Dante glanced at her, and went on painting. “Or else what? He is my patron,” he added, over his shoulder. “Why should I do what you want?”

“If you don’t, I’ll burn this cottage to the ground and all your art with it.” He turned around, and looked her over. “I’m bloody serious.”

“Yes, I am sure you would. But you have never had anything to fear from me. I believe in self-control. He has never received a thing from me but paint.”

“Do you swear?”

“On my art,” he replied, hand on heart. “I can swear by no higher.”

Vicky went back home and waited. And waited. Finally she went down to El Matador. Doug was at the bar, three sheets to the wind.

“Come on, mate,” Vicky said. “Let’s be having you.”

“Leave me alone,” Doug snarled.

“Sure. Let’s go home where you can have a go at me to your bloody heart’s content.”

“I’m not going anywhere! I’m staying right here! Leave me alone, goddammit!”

Vicky looked around. The bar was full of patrons, waiting with relish for another legendary fight. Elena, behind the bar. George, trying to vanish in plain sight. Enough, she thought. Too much.

“Fine. Try to get him home safe, George.”

“Good riddance,” Doug called after her as she walked out. “Another round!”

But after an hour of an increasingly drunk and obnoxious Doug, even Elena had had enough: “No more. Go home.”

“Who’s gonna make me? You? I’m not going anywhere! What are you going to do—”

At which point Elena’s bouncers bundled Doug out of the bar and into his van. One of them drove Doug home, George following. Mateo was waiting at the house.

“The b***h called you, did she?” Doug snarled.

“Elena called them,” George said, as the bouncer and Mateo got Doug out of the van. “He’s all yours.”

“Where’s Dolores?” Doug asked.

“Watching television.” Mateo said.

Doug looked around, frustrated. “Well? Are you going to get me out of here?”

Once in the living room, Doug asked, “Where’s Vicky?”

“I do not know,” Mateo said. “Not here. Come, I will help you to bed.”

“No! I don’t want to sleep. I dream when I sleep. I can’t dream if I don’t sleep. Go away.”

* * * *

“And where were you when Señor Benson came home?” Inspector Martinez asked Dolores.

“We were at the house,” Dolores said. “Elena from El Matador called and said she sent him home.”

“I helped him out of the car and into the house,” Mateo said. “Then he told me to leave so I left.”

“And after that?” Martinez asked.

“We went to bed,” Dolores said, wearily. “It was late.”

“Did you see anyone else around the house?”

“No,” Dolores said.

“What about the artist? Dante?”

“Oh, I saw him,” Dolores groaned. “He was sick, from bad food he ate from that pigsty by the wharf. I told him never to go there, but he did, and he paid for it, all night long. Such vomit! Such sweat! Such purging of the bowels! I know. He called me, and I went over and cared for him. I even had to change the sheets. Doubtless I will have to change them again when I get home.”

“Was this when the fire broke out?”

“I do not know when the fire broke out. I know when I saw it. After I cleaned up Dante. And cleaned up after cleaning up. I saw it, out the window. I woke up Mateo. We ran over to the house. And I saw him, Señor Benson, lying on the floor. Fire everywhere.” Dolores crossed herself. “Mateo, he went in and dragged him out. But I knew as soon as I saw him, he was dead.”

“And what about Mrs. Benson?”

“She never came home. Never. She was fed up, that is what it was. That was all.”

“And you’re certain of that? There have been rumors.”

Dolores spit on the floor. “That for the rumors!” Then she leaned over—“Con permesso,” and wiped it up with a tissue. “She loved him.”

* * * *

“Of course, the first question I must ask is where you have been, Señora Benson.”

“I was in Escondido,” Vicky said. Stunned eyes, muted voice, shrunken into herself. She was nothing like the woman of whom Inspector Martinez had heard so many stories. “I have an old friend there. I stay with her sometimes. Loretta Strafe.”

“A long distance away. May I ask why you went there last night?”

“Because my husband was drunk. And I didn’t want to go home and wait for him. Or go home at all. I wanted a night off.”

“And you spent the entire night there?”

“Yes.”

“And when did you find out about your husband’s death?”

“I got a phone call from Dolores. I drove by the house on my way here,” she added. “Was Doug—was he burned badly?”

“Somewhat,” Inspector said. Vicky winced. “But we must talk about what the coroner has found. He has determined Señor Benson received a blow to the back of his head. According to your servants, there were no fallen beams near him, so someone must have hit him.” As she looked blank, he added, “Deliberately hit him. You have nothing to say?”

“I can’t believe any of this. I... The one night I went to Lorie’s.” She put her hands over her mouth as her eyes filled and her face trembled. “I can’t believe it. I cannot believe it!”

“The coincidence is great,” he said. “So great, there will need to be an investigation.”

She sat up straight, her eyes flashing. “Do all the bloody investigating you need to do. I want whoever killed Doug found and arrested. I’d start with those who hated him, like Monckton Powys. Or is he too rich to investigate?”

“We will speak with everyone necessary.”

“Good. And where... Where is Doug? His body?”

“The coroner has released him to the Flores Mortuary. I believe your housekeeper is making some preliminary arrangements.”

“Dolores. Yes, she would. May I leave now? I haven’t even seen—” Her lips trembled again. “And I need to make arrangements—”

“Of course. But do not try to leave Los Reyes.”

Vicky surged to her feet. “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

* * * *

“This is ridiculous,” said Monckton Powys. “I resent these accusations. I had every reason to want the man alive. I wanted his land. How can he sell it to me if he’s dead?”

“You could buy it from his widow,” Inspector Martinez pointed out. “I understand that you have had some previous success with—”

“With Vicki Benson? Hardly!”

“With the first wife.”

“Oh, God, Maria. We had an affair. That’s all. She wasn’t worth all the fuss, actually. I regretted it almost immediately.”

“And where were you the night of the fire?”

“I was at the Club. Then I returned to my flat for an evening of sipping single malt while streaming. No witnesses. But a man of my caliber, my stature, has no need of them. Why murder when you can negotiate and, if that fails, bankrupt?”

“And were you bankrupting the late Douglas Benson?”

“Hardly. He was doing it all himself.” Powys smiled. “If I were you, I’d have a chat with George Ortiz. Poor old bastard, he ate up all of Doug’s cheese. Nibble, nibble, nibble. And like any other rat, worried he was about to get caught. There is nothing like happy hour at the club. You learn such interesting things.”

“What do you think of the widow Benson?”

“I think she’s a b***h, but I don’t believe she killed him. That doesn’t mean she didn’t start the fire. Just to scare him a little bit. Perhaps it got out of hand. Things so often do, especially with women of that temperament.” Powys shifted in his chair and asked, “May I leave now?”

* * * *

“It wasn’t me,” George gasped. “I drove Doug home, and then I went back to El Matador. Elena will vouch for me.”

Inspector Martinez fished out a note and commented, “But you did not spend the night.”

George flushed. “Is this relevant?”

“Perhaps. Certainly relevant is the downturn Señor Benson’s finances have made of late. Under your management.”

George turned white. “I made some unfortunate mistakes. But I didn’t foresee the recession. Nobody did. And this latest economic downturn came out of nowhere. I have done nothing illegal—”

“Has anyone said so?”

“You’re—”

“I do understand that Señor Benson was about to terminate your services.”

“That’s a lie. And if he did, that would be her doing. Mrs. Benson. She hates me. She... She told Doug that I wasn’t any good. I told him it was the global economy at work. That things would rebound. She just hammered away—”

“Tell me about Señora Benson’s finances.”

“I don’t know. She’s never let me handle her money.”

“So she does have money of her own?”

“No family money. She won a lottery. An Australian lottery. She’s common as dirt.”

“Money is money. But to return to the night of the fire. You took Señor Benson home, then went back to the El Matador, visited Elena. And after that?”

“I went home. I went to sleep. I was worn out.”

“Too much excitement is bad for men of our age, Señor,” Inspector Martinez sympathized.

* * * *

“I understand that you were sick all the night of the fire.”

“Yes,” Dante said with deep self-pity. “So nearly were there two tragedies that night. No, there were two. But there were nearly three. I was dying, thanks to bad shrimp prepared by a man as unclean as a dog rolling in filth. I despise uncleanness. I tried everything. I took grappa. I thought that would kill the filth, the illness, but it only made it worse. I could not sleep. I could not paint. I could not even think. I could do nothing but vomit.”