Prologue
Vagabond squirmed, shifting
from foot to foot and
swinging his great head with
displeasure as Diana Quigley
mounted. His protest
increased as she directed
him toward the familiar
grove of trees. "What's the
matter, old boy, don't you
want to ride today? I
promise to keep it short. We
have some new paintings
coming to the museum and one
of them looks very much like
these woods."
The area surrounding the
Quigley estate that so
pleased Diana, provided sun
and soil to century old
Eastern white pine and
craggy black barked oak. The
ancient trees stretched
skyward over a hundred feet
and beckoned visitors with
leaves twice the size of a
human hand. Those monuments
to nature's patience and
endurance offered refuge to
white tail deer, muskrat,
raccoons, mink, screech
owls, songbirds, red-tailed
hawks, and others. Two
legged visitors found the
quiet natural paths a
perfect place to relax and
reflect in a stressful
world. The serenity of that
warm August morning in 1968
did little to sooth
Vagabond, and minutes after
she urged him into their
private sanctuary, Diana
Quigley regretted her
failure to understand the
horse's warning.
Chapter 1
My name is Matilda Constance
Draper. Folks still alive that
aren't young enough to call me
ma'am know me as Mattie. Like
most people who've experienced
this thing called life, I've
seen good times and a few not so
good times. That's how it goes.
At sixty-seven, I'm old enough
to know that things happen I
can't control and it's up to me
to do the best I can with the
changes. I've also learned that
if you make friends with
pigeons, you have to be prepared
to accept everything that comes
with them. When I decided to
work as a private investigator,
I knew I'd be dealing with my
share of crap.
Draper Detective Agency opened
its doors shortly after my
twenty-seventh birthday and I
kept those doors wedged open for
thirty-eight years. Before that,
I'd worked as a secretary. My
biggest problem with that
particular occupation was that
it never took me long to learn
what made the office tick and
what my job entailed. That meant
it never took long for me to
start daydreaming about greener
pastures, or at least more
challenging places to graze.
That was the reason for my
frequent relocation, not as a
few friends and family members
have implied, because I couldn't
hold a job. If you've ever done
office work, you understand why
I needed to make a change. How
often can you type 'Dear Sir or
Madam' before you start rubbing
your finger against your lips to
make strange buzzing noises? It
usually took me around six
months.
I didn't have the right stuff to
sit behind a desk for eight
hours and the longer I tried,
the unhappier I became. The
problem was I had no idea how to
remove myself from my gloomy
situation and keep the landlord
smiling. My friend, Frankie
Ficaro, himself a private
investigator, suggested I try
detective work. Frankie and I
had only known each other a few
months, but he said he thought
with the way my brain figured
things out, I'd be good. After
all the jobs I'd had, I knew my
brain did more than its share of
working things out and I
considered his suggestion. In
high school, I read 'This Girl
for Hire' with detective Honey
West and thought it would be an
exciting and fun job. I just
hadn't pictured myself in Honey
West's shoes, and not because
the heels were too high.
Frankie said that being a woman
in the investigating business
would give me an advantage,
because I'd be unusual. I was
sure he meant that in the nicest
way. He also believed in what he
called women's natural sense of
nosiness. I told him the word he
wanted was intuition. Frankie
didn't have his finger pressed
firmly on the pulse of society,
but I decided to try anyway.
To be honest, the agency might
not have made it through the
starting gate if it hadn't been
for Frankie. When I decided to
go for it, I thought I'd work
out of my apartment. He wasn't
crazy about the idea. He said
clients needed to feel confident
that you were a real private
investigator and that meant
having a real office. He told me
about an empty space between him
and a bail bondsman in his
building on Ashland Avenue. The
PI that had it closed a big case
and retired. Frankie said that
was a good sign and I agreed.
The first floor of the two-story
structure where we rented was a
currency exchange. The bail
bondsman and me and Frankie
occupied the upstairs. The
building smelled stale and
musty, and enough feet tramped
in with city dirt and grime to
make everything a shade or two
darker than their original
colors, including the windows.
The radiators clanked and the
water pressure suffered more
mood swings than my cat
Sebastian, but everything worked
well enough. That was what
mattered. At least it did to me.
Being in a less desirable
Chicago neighborhood made the
rent affordable. That mattered,
too.
Both Frankie and the bail
bondsman put air conditioning
units in their office window.
For the first few weeks, the
noise they made went right
through me, but neither of the
guys heard the racket. I didn't
have a unit because I couldn't
afford it, but the air from my
two neighbors kept me cool and
it kept my share of the electric
bill down.
Frankie did more than find me an
office space. His agency kept
him plenty busy and he gave me
his overflow, cases he couldn't
or didn't want to handle. They
were small—chasing down cheating
spouses and finding missing
animals—I didn't mind as long as
I could work as a PI. Typing out
an invoice after a case, no
matter how little I made, was
more fun than typing 'Dear Sir
or Madam'. It wasn't until I
cracked my first big assignment
that I could afford to have
Draper Detective Agency painted
on the glass window of my door.
That was the Quigley case and it
came three months after I
started. That job did more than
help me buy a sign—it made me a
detective.
Frankie didn't give me the
Quigley case, although he did
help. The way things kept
happening with that
investigation, there were a few
times when I wondered if it
might be my last. The year was
1968, a hellish time for the
United States. We saw the
assassinations of Martin Luther
King, Jr. and Bobby Kennedy. We
watched the war in Viet Nam
drudge on, and for reasons that
no one understood, kidnapping
became a popular way to make
quick cash.
I didn't hear about Mrs.
Quigley's disappearance until
almost 48 hours after it
happened. David Quigley, husband
of the victim, showed up at my
office. It surprised him to find
a woman sitting behind the desk,
at least one who wasn't a
secretary. He didn't even sit
down before he said he thought
M. Draper was a man and he
wanted a male detective working
for him. I didn't take offense.
Female investigators were rare,
and besides, I wasn't sure if I
was ready to handle a
kidnapping.
Quigley was a good-looking well
dressed guy. The way his hands
wouldn't stay still told me
right away that he was in sorry
shape about something. I
explained how I ran a one-woman
detective agency and that I had
a ninety-seven percent success
rate. That was true, but I
didn't tell him how many bites
and scratches I got completing
those cases. Frankie must have
been listening through the
paper-thin walls because he
stuck his head in and asked if
I'd stop by his office when I
finished. He had a new case and
needed my opinion. I knew
Frankie didn't need my help. He
wanted me to get the job. It
must have worked, because after
that, Mr. Quigley relaxed a
little. Although I suspected by
how he dropped into the chair it
was more that he just didn't
have the energy to search for
another PI.
He told me that an associate of
his recommended me and thought I
could find his wife. His words
bolstered my confidence enough
to make me believe I could. That
was my first mistake. I hadn't
handled a kidnapping before, but
in my mind, good sense and logic
could solve any crime. That was
my second.
For the two years since I've
retired, I've been telling
myself to write this story down,
and now I have. The following
account of Mrs. Quigley's
kidnapping is from my notes and
my memory, both of which are
slightly worse for wear.
Kindle eBook
$3.99
Smashwords
$3.99
in most eBook formats
|
