Fictional Short Story Series - Quincy Rathbone, Part 4

I realized that it has been a while since I've been able to let Quincy Rathbone out of the creative cage, so here is the next installment.

Quincy Rathbone, Part 4 - Needmore Police

Quincy sat on the second-floor balcony of the Comfy Pillow Hotel looking out at the busy marketplace of Needmore. Needmore was a small village just outside of Everless with only three streets that crossed at the center to make a large triangle. This is where the town's shops, civic buildings, and single hotel were situated.

The people of Needmore were unusual, to say the least. There were artists and musicians, scientists and theologians, and all with varying degrees of wealth and/or eccentricity; From the local sculptor living under a small, make-shift lean-to outside the cafe to Maximilian Arthur Smith, philosophical physicist renowned for the discovery of the Smith fiction particle--the particle that binds plot to characters and gives story structure mass--not as well-known as the Higgs, but almost equally lucrative.

Maximilian Arthur Smith was the reason Quincy was called to the Comfy Pillow Hotel. The hotel was an expensive, vintage colonial style--despite its name. The guests were usually people of some notoriety and so it was perfectly logical for Maximilian to choose to stay there--despite living only forty minutes away. His purpose there was a bit more unusual and over-dramatic. Maximilian had brought his family together there for a pleasant, long-weekend getaway where he would announce inheritance--he'd even prepared an elaborate reveal.

On the last morning of the three-day stay, Maximilian would distribute letters to each family member with a personal message and a description of any inheritance they were to receive upon his death, with one lucky winner taking nearly seventy-five percent for themselves. The night before the reveal, the letters were taken. Of course, no one admitted to taking the letters and everyone allowed their rooms to be searched to no avail. Being a man of some importance, the hotel immediately phoned the police to help recover the letters.

Needmore's one police officer, Greg Haskin, was no detective so he called the Everless Police Department and requested assistance. What he got was a rude receptionist, a rude sergeant from the wrong department, and finally, a rude detective that gave him the phone number of a private consultant; Quincy Rathbone.

"Mr. Rathbone?" Haskins approached Quincy.

"Yes," Quincy replied.

"I'm Greg Haskin, we spoke on the phone."

"Yes," Quincy said, unsuccessfully trying not to sound like he was successfully trying not to sound as irritated as he really was.

“I’m glad you could make it. We don’t normally see much crime here; I might be Needmore Police, but we don’t…”

“Please, do not finish that sentence if you expect me to continue being on this balcony.”

“Umm… Err… Right. Well, I suppose… I suppose we should start with the particulars.” Haskins was looking more and more nervous.

“Yes, let’s start with the particulars,” Quincy said. He was already upset that he’d been asked to look into this. Hubbard had gone behind Warner’s back to talk to his boss about waiving some of the requirements for a private investigator’s permit—in light of Quincy’s service to his community. So, Quincy got his license, but Warner was the senior detective and had been keeping Quincy away from the bigger cases for nearly two months. Quincy knew Warner liked him cleaning up the larger number of petty crimes so the other “real” detectives could keep the high-profile stuff.

Quincy realized that he hadn’t been listening to Haskins for several minutes. It wasn’t usual for Quincy to not pay attention to anything, but he had some cause for alarm. Quincy’s way of doing things was partly a parlor trick in his mind. He simply knew details about everyone in the criminal world and used that to figure out where everyone was and what they were most likely doing there. Nearly none of the data Quincy tracked lead him to Needmore—except the occasional fly-by-night pot dealer. There weren’t many that didn’t live, grow, and sell exclusively in Needmore, which usually kept them isolated from Quincy’s observation.

“Stop,” Quincy interrupted, “I need to speak to everyone.”

“Everyone, who?” Haskins barely managed.

“Everyone! I need to know about everyone in this building. Once I know the people, I will know what they do.”

“Well, I assumed you’d want to do some interviews, but there are currently thirty-eight people in the hotel—including staff. Why would any of the other guests steal the letters?”

“They wouldn’t. It’s not that it’s entirely outside the realm of possibility, but you’re absolutely right—they simply wouldn’t. No, I already know it was one of the family members, but I can only get so much truth about a person out of that person. We’ll just have to break it up. How long is the family staying?”

“They were only staying until tomorrow, but they’ve agreed to stay until this is taken care of.”

“Of course they have. One of those envelopes has the golden ticket.”

Haskin’s expression was reflective of his ambivalence; He wasn’t quite sure if Quincy was smart or just out to lunch. Haskins pulled out his notepad, flipped to the page with the list of family names and room numbers, and lead Quincy to the first room.

Quincy followed Haskins to the room of the first family member. Haskins stopped a few feet short of the door and checked the hallway—a move Quincy thought completely unnecessary.

“This is Albert Livingston Smith’s room, Maximilian’s older brother. I spoke with him first as well,” Haskins paused to think before continuing, “He’s easy to talk to.”

“Why don’t we talk to Maximilian first?”

“Oh, well. I just sort of thought we would go by closest room.”

Quincy drew an eyebrow up unconsciously. Haskins had done something that actually made Quincy feel happy—he was being systematically efficient. Haskins knocked on the door and Albert answered. Quincy was momentarily stunned. Albert was in his late fifties, his hair—and wildly long beard—were pure white. His dark red skin and nearly skeletal build made him look like some sort of witchdoctor from a 1940’s movie—especially when he moved his head and his hair trailed along like dandelion seeds would. He wore a bright orange and white flowery island shirt and khaki cargo shorts. He was barefoot, and when he extended his hand to shake Quincy’s, he smiled and revealed that he had all but his upper-right lateral incisor, leaving a large, goofy gap next to his two front teeth. Quincy shuddered a little, but shook the man’s hand.

“So, I guess you want to talk about Max’s millions? Ha! Look at that! Max’s millions. That’s funny. Hey, do you guys like mango juice?” Albert lept nearly four feet and ran to the bar with what could only be described as an unrealistically fast shuffle. Albert was quick, albeit awkwardly so.

“Max’s… Yes, what? Mango, not real… Ok. So, what about Max’s, er, your brother’s millions, er, letters.” Quincy was not used to not being used to things. He wasn’t necessarily comfortable, but he was at least prepared for most things--he thought. Albert was already proving to Quincy that he was going to have a hell of a time figuring out these particular goldfish.

“Well, I don’t want his money. I have plenty of my own worthless money.”

Quincy could tell that Albert was expecting a reaction to work off of, so he did everything he could to not draw attention to the comment. Albert was already one step ahead of him, though.

“Money doesn’t buy you happiness. I mean, sure, I can fly anywhere in the world, but I could probably get there anyway. And, I don’t really need all thirty-three houses, but they do help when I’m doing my work.”

“And what work is that?” Haskins asked. Quincy was relieved that Haskins had been so quick to move the subject along; However, neither Quincy or Haskins was prepared for any answers Albert would be giving.

“I’m trying to return the Earth to it’s resonant frequency in order to establish a spiritual balance and restore peace to all man-kind. It’s more of a divine calling than work, really. It requires a great deal of travel.”

“And houses, apparently,” Quincy added.

“Yes, and houses. Much equipment, you see.”

Quincy and Haskins nodded blankly in unison. Albert returned from the bar with three glasses of mango juice. Quincy sighed. Haskins sipped the juice and nodded in approval. Quincy sniffed and sampled the juice. It actually was quite good, but Quincy didn’t want to give any indication that he was buying anything Albert was selling in general.

“So, you have no reason to envy your brother?” Quincy asked.

“Well, no. I don’t envy him--I might hate him a little--but, no. I don’t envy him.”

Haskins looked at Quincy with the now-you-see-what-I-was-talking-about look, but Quincy didn’t know what he was talking about, so to him, Haskins just looked like he was suddenly taking issue with the juice.

“You hate him a little?” Quincy couldn’t believe he was asking for clarification on this.

“Well, yeah. He pretty much represents all the things that destabilized all our auras a long time ago. He’s always put his crazy pursuit of so-called particle physics in front of common-sense and spiritual awareness. Plus, when I was in my thirties--and he in his twenties--he had an affair with my ex-wife. For years, I swore I’d kill him--I even came up with some rough ideas of how, nothing solid, but you know, good starter options--but I never did get around to it. I’m always so busy with the frequency adjustments.”

Quincy’s eyebrows shot straight up and he sort of nodded and tilted his head back simultaneously as he replied, “Yes, I suppose that little thing, too.”

Quincy and Haskins traded on and off for a while trying to steer Albert into questions not involving chakras, vibrations in the ether, or galactic councils until Quincy felt he couldn’t glean any more information. They thanked Albert for the juice and walked into the hallway.

“Well, that was taxing.” Quincy said.

“Yeah. He’s not the hardest to talk to either,” Haskins admitted, staring down the corridor blankly.

“Lovely. Who’s next?”

“Belinda Rose Smith. Youngest of two younger sisters.”

“And what’s her deal?”

“Well, she--like her siblings--inherited an equal portion of their father’s estate when they were younger and invested it in creating her own company. She’s also quite wealthy.”

“Ok. Does she also think that dolphins are psychic and that mango juice keeps negative vibrations from penetrating your skin?”

“Well, no, not exactly. She’s more real business oriented than Albert.”

“What does her company do?”

“... They make scuba gear…”

“Huh. That’s normal enough.”

“... for pets.”