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A/N: I’m a glutton for reviews. I was holding out on this story because it’s going to be tricky, but I can’t wait any longer – I must know what you think! This story is a far cry from anything I’ve ever written and I do hope you like it. It is a mystery based HEAVILY off of Raymond Chandler’s character Philip Marlowe who was a private detective in the 1930-40 Los Angeles. I draw from Marlowe very heavily and some of his lines may make direct or paraphrased appearances . . . And yes, there will be romance too. (No, I have not forgotten about Customer Satisfaction . . . but this story has definitely become my writing priority right now due to its complexity).
The Missing Keeper
Draco Malfoy
I’m a licensed private investigator and have been for quite a while. I’m a lone wolf, unmarried, thirty, and not rich. I’ve been in Azkaban more than once and I don’t do divorce business. I like liquor and women and chess and a few other things. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement doesn’t like me too well, but I know a couple of Aurors I get along with. I’m a wizard, born in Wiltshire, both parents dead, no brothers or sisters, and when I get avada’d in a dark alley sometime, if it happens, as it could to anyone in my business, nobody will feel that the bottom has dropped out of his or her life.(1)
There was a short walk from the gate at the sidewalk leading to the steps of the house that brought you past exciting locations such as the birdbath that was larger than my bedroom and a garden that boasted of wild roses, waxy looking bushes that had seen better days, and a solitary apple tree that looked severely out of place.
The massive door before me was made of a dark mahogany that contrasted nicely with the Georgian style of the mansion. The carvings of snitches, quaffles, and broomsticks on the door indicated that this was the home of a Quidditch enthusiast. I knocked twice.
A moment later the door opened revealing an expanse entry with marble flooring that shined, mahogany wood panelling along the walls that mimicked the front door with it’s Quidditch themed etching, a wide marble stair case that forked to the left and the right leading to more grandeur, and in the center of the room smiling at me was a blonde wearing all the appropriate things that indicated wealth, including an upturned nose perfect for looking down on someone or something and big blue eyes that could either turn you into ice or make you melt, depending on their mood.
The author of the cryptic message resting in my breast pocket that brought me to this mahogany resting place moved toward me swiftly, holding out her hand in an aristocratic fashion that served two purposes: an opportunity to show off the pride of the family fortune which was wrapped around her fingers and an opportunity for you to acknowledge your inferiority with a demeaning kiss. As she approached me, her hand carefully raised, I wondered briefly how her weak arm muscles could possibly support such a heavily weighted hand.
“Draco, so good of you to come,” she said genially.
I kissed her hand; one of the many rings scratched my chin softly during its descent from my lips. “Pansy,” I said.
“Come in, come in. Let’s not stand here like awkward first years.” She giggled at her joke and proceeded to walk towards the left and to, what I assumed, would be an even greater room than the entry. Her heels clicked an awkward beat against the marble as she left.
I followed the clicking of her heels, as expected, into another elaborate room and through another before our journey ended in a library that put all the rooms before it to shame. Books were shelved from floor to ceiling in wooden cases that shared in the Quidditch theme as seen before. Now knowing to whom the house belonged, the Quidditch obsession seemed more ostentatious than gaudy.
Large bay windows opened to an impressive view of a sloping lawn and a half-pitch, no doubt for private practice. Between the windows were glass cabinets housing trophies, awards, and ribbons of varying sizes, colors, and importance.
On the opposite wall was a large brick fireplace that could fit ten elves or four men larger than me, including the single log inside of it. Over the fireplace was an original by Rembrandt, a picture I’d seen countless of times in a former life. I looked at it for a moment before my eyes lowered to the mantle, widening as I remembered last week’s papers. On the mantle rested the piece de resistance in all of her glory – the Quidditch World Cup.
The blonde sat down behind a desk the size of my apartment, coughed softly to break me of my reverie, and directed me to a cushy chair in front of her. I sat down.
“Long time, no see, Mrs. Wood,” I said. She looked at me and smiled sweetly.
“Draco, you speak as if you and I didn’t wear nappies together. It’s Pansy . . . Anyway, thank you for coming,” she said, smiling again.
“I had no choice; the nagging curiosity got the best of me.” I didn’t smile.
“I’m sorry for all the hush-hush, but you must understand. I would have come to your office myself but I’m afraid I have a rather delicate situation and could not risk being seen. You understand, don’t you?”
“I understand perfectly. I don’t much like being seen at my office either. Dreadful place; rather unkempt.” She looked at me strangely. “You were saying,” I said, saving her the brain energy required to understand my simple joke.
“Right, Draco, I need your help. You see it’s . . . it’s Oliver. He’s missing.” She looked at me, waiting for a response.
“How long?” I asked.
“Four days. I haven’t heard from him at all; I don’t know where he is – I’m so worried! Can you help me?” She moved closer to the edge of her seat, her eyes wide as if to indicate vulnerability.
“Did you try the Ministry? File a missing person’s report?” I looked past her and out of the long window behind the desk; in it I had an unobstructed view of the apple tree. The leaves danced in the rare August breeze that swept through the garden.
“I went over there yesterday and they said they could do nothing for me – said I couldn’t file a report until the person had been missing a week. A week! It’s been four days and I can barely stand it; I can’t wait a week. You will help me, won’t you? I’ve no one else to turn to . . . I do hate the Ministry anyways, and that blasted Potter was no help of course . . . You see why I need you, don’t you?” She looked at me through tears but nothing else about her gave her away as a worried wife. She carefully blinked away the tears so they wouldn’t smear her mascara.
I pulled my gaze away from the window. “Thirty galleons a day plus expenses,” I said tonelessly. If I had a galleon for every time I sad that, I’d almost be a rich man.
“Money’s no object Draco, are you sure that’s enough?” She gave me a pitying sort of look, a look I had been waiting for.
“No, any more and I’d feel like I was cheating you. When was the last time you saw him?”
“It was four days ago, three days after the game. He came home from a press conference and we had a quiet evening; I went to bed early. I woke up in the middle of the night and he wasn’t in bed but there was a note . . .” She pulled a piece of paper out of a drawer in the desk and handed it to me. I glanced at it then looked at her. She continued: “That was it; last time I heard from him or saw him was that night.” She glanced at the note in my hand then back at me. She wanted me to read it. There was nothing written in the note that I didn’t already know.
Pansy, went out. Will be back later. Oliver.
I looked at her. She was worrying a handkerchief she had pulled from nowhere; the action didn’t suit her otherwise composed posture.
“That’s it?” I said with disbelief. Her eyes that had been focused on the handkerchief quickly shot up to mine.
“What do you mean ‘that’s it’?” She spat uncharacteristically cat-like. I found her to be more of a snake-like hisser.
“I mean what aren’t you telling me?” I said simply, drawing circles on the plush fabric of the chair absently.
“I told you everything. He left me and never came back!” She cried in frustration.
“Why’d he leave?” I scratched my chin. My neck felt left out so I scratched that too.
“I don’t know why he left – maybe to get a night cap? I don’t know!” She blew her bangs out of her face in frustration.
I looked at her sceptically. A house this large has no shortages of nightcaps.
“Or perhaps he was going out to see someone?” I said. Her eyes flashed angrily and I sensed a cool breeze coming from them.
“I don’t think that was it,” she said between clenched teeth.
“You can believe something else if you want, but I kind of like it . . . Are you angry enough to tell me what I want to hear or should I keep going?”
Her façade of geniality was long gone and so were her manners. She stared at me hard and I stared back even harder. She sighed and sat back in her chair. I had won but I continued to stare anyway.
“All right, there’s more,” she said with defeat.
“Of course there is. There must be. There’s a reason why you’re all worked up and emotional when your husband – whose job can whisk him away to all corners of the earth at a moment’s notice – has suddenly gone incommunicado for a couple days. Now are you going to tell me what that is or should I come up with my own scenario? I’ve already got one picked out, it’s really colorful. You won’t like it.”
“Enough!” she shouted. “I get it, all right? I get it – no secrets. But before I tell you anything, I need your word that not an ounce of what I tell you gets back to the press.”
“Then you have it.” I gave her my best look of sincerity. She bought it and reached back into the desk and produced two more envelopes.
“A few weeks ago,” she began, “Oliver received an owl bearing this letter.” She tossed it across the desk and it landed in front of me. I didn’t look at it. “Aren’t you going to read it?” she asked.
“I can’t read. Go on.”
She rolled her eyes before continuing. “Well, in it – the letter – it said Oliver had better lose the game against France or they were going to the press.” She paused.
“What’s so special about your husband that the press would be interested?” I asked. She looked at me quickly.
“I don’t know; that’s the thing. Oliver doesn’t have a bad bone in his body, no skeletons, no secrets, nothing.”
“Oh, I don’t believe that; everybody’s got at least one skeleton –”
“Don’t be cheeky.”
“I’m not.”
She sighed again. “Oliver chalked it up to empty threats – all the players get ‘em, he said. So he did nothing; we didn’t bother telling anyone. Pointless, he said. Well you know they won the match. Few days went by, nothing – then we get this.” She tossed the second envelope at me and it landed beside its twin. She didn’t ask me to read it this time.
“Same as the first; telling Oliver to lose the cup. But this time,” she hesitated and took a long sniff. “This time they threatened to kill Oliver and me if he didn’t lose the game.” She paused for effect. Disappointment danced across her face at my lack of surprise.
“Is that all?” I asked. “They didn’t want money?”
“No, no mentioning of money. Just death . . . You don’t – you don’t think they . . . you know – followed up on their threat, do you?” Her brow was wrinkled and her baby blues were shining again with tears.
“I don’t know, that’s what I’m here to figure out. I don’t think so though. Why didn’t they go public with whatever dirt they thought they had? Dragging your name through the mud would be nothing to people like that – it’s like taking out the rubbish. Why hesitate to tell the press? It’s possible they might’ve gone after your husband. Maybe he’s lying low for a few days. Who knows?” I picked up the envelopes and placed them in my pocket along with Wood’s note to Pansy. I stood and put my hands in my pockets.
Pansy rose and crossed the tracks to my side of the desk. A few errant tears ran down her cheek, racing each other to the finish. She gave me a hug. I kept my hands in my pockets. She smelled like something sweet, something good enough to eat but probably bad for you. “Thank you Draco. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She said after releasing me.
I knew but I didn’t tell her. I nodded at her and said goodbye.
Once I was back on the porch, I took a long cleansing breath of fresh air before journeying through the garden. The bird pool looked inviting in the morning heat but even more so were the ripe, juicy red apples that beckoned from the apple tree. I almost considered it when my stomach churned but then I remembered that snakes lived in apple trees, waiting to strike some unsuspecting hungry fool who came along looking for a snack.
I didn’t want to be that fool today. Maybe another day.
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