Don't Explain: An Artie Deemer Mystery Read Online Free

Kempshall Island. What do you say? You got me this gig, let me give you a vacation in the boathouse. It looks like you need it.”
    “Does it really look like I need it?”
    “Oh, bad.”

THREE

    J ellyroll was supposed to play dead when his person tries to feed him some “ordinary” dogfood instead of his usual R-r-ruff Dogfood. His person prods him, picks him up, jostles him, cajoles him, but nothing works, he remains “dead,” hanging limply in his person’s arms—until offered some you-know-what. He’s great at it. Playing dead is a Lassie bit we copied one melancholy Saturday afternoon.
    But under the present circumstances, the playing dead part made me edgy. I decided, however, to let it go because the young writing team of Marsha and Brad was so delighted with the “concept,” I didn’t have the heart to make them change it. After all, he was just
playing
dead. Besides, the cool, dark studio felt safe, and the people inside greeted us warmly, asked if we’d like anything, coffee or a snack.
    Mr. Fleckton and his two always-terrified assistants greeted me, but they were as stiff as potato chips today, and I could tell by the way Mr. Fleckton’s brow throbbed that something was uniquely wrong. He made small talk with me for a little while, then he said, “Uh, ahem, Mr. Frank would like to, ah, see you on thirty-five.”
    The corporate headquarters, the brains, of H. & R. Casswell Comestibles, the corporate parent of R-r-ruff Dogfood, was known to its minions as “thirty-five.” It was always spoken of in hushed, reverential tones, even when ridiculed, as in “those dick-heads on thirty-five.” It had its own elevator, a carpeted, paneled, and mirrored one that stopped only there. On thirty-five.
    “Uh, Artie,” said Fleckton in a quivering voice, “no animals allowed on…thirty-five.”
    I paused. “He’s been up there before,” I told Fleckton.
    “Yes, but that was special.” Mr. Fleckton’s eyes pleaded.
    Did I want to leave Jellyroll alone under the circumstances? Or did I want to tell them all to fuck themselves?
    “We’ll take great care of him right here,” said Marsha and Brad. Jellyroll loved Marsha and Brad.
    So I agreed. The elevator shot upward at orbital velocity putting undue strain on the ligaments in my knees. Nobody needs to go that fast unless he’s an astronaut.
    A jovial, round-faced fellow in an expensive suit met me when the door opened onto the decorated (the concept was mauve) reception area. On thirty-five. He pumped my hand and led me into his corner office. The floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooked the southern reaches of Central Park and most of Manhattan to the north.
    “Artie, nice to see you again. Barry Frank, you remember me?”
    “Sure. How do you do?” I’d never laid eyes on this guy before. Why was he so nervous? His smile was about to fall off his face and disappear in the mauve carpet. Was this about the stalker? Had they, too, heard about the stalker?
    “Come on in, have a seat. Coffee?”
    “No, thanks.”
    He pressed a button on his desk somewhat smaller than a snooker table. “Wanda, coffee. Wanda, ASAP.” He smiled at me. He sat on the corner of his desk, swung his leg back and forth. “So how’ve you been?” he asked as if we were old buddies at the frat house smoker. “Have a seat.”
    I heard water splashing somewhere. Did he have a fountain in here? I looked for it, didn’t see one.
    “Oh, that?” he said. “That’s a little idiosyncrasy of mine. Nature tapes. That’s the
Babbling Brook
. For relaxation purposes. Does it bother you? I can turn it off. Dam it up, as it were, ha-ha.”
    “It doesn’t bother me.” I sat in a leather chair facing him. His smile never faltered, but beads of sweat sprang from his forehead.
    The coffee arrived, delivered by a beautiful young woman in a tight little black skirt and ruffled white silk blouse. She bent from the waist and placed the tray on a glass coffee table. Then she turned