“All I could pry from Joyce was that they hired a man — or, should I say, Grandpa hired a man to look for Marcus Weiner.”
“I already knew that,” said Tull, thrilled to know something about anything.
“But did you know it was a guy Dad went to school with?”
“What school—”
“BV — Beverly Vista. I heard him talking — Mom and him — at midnight, in the kitchen. I’ve got the place wired. There’s still a few bugs, but …”
“What did they say?”
“He was telling Joyce about Marcie Millard.”
“Marcie Millard?”
“The lady hammering Dad for money to rebuild their alma mater.”
In the weeks after the initial revelation of his father’s undeceased state — that terrible hour with Trinnie and Grandpa Lou in the Withdrawing Room — he had been loath to think of Marcus Weiner at all, let alone make inquiries of anyone who might possess the facts. A firewall had descended; even kids at school whose parents had been privy to the resurrected scandal seemed to have lost interest in provoking him. Now, something had shifted and Tull was beginning to wake up.
“But do you think they found him?”
The cousin grew pensive, letting the question take air. “Do I think they found your father? Is that what you’re asking?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
“To that, I would have to answer … no. No, Tull, I do not think they found your father, I am sorry or not sorry to say.”
A long, sad silence ensued as they navigated the stony streets of Olde CityWalk on the approach to the Majestyk, an authentic movie house that seated seventy-five. Like all structures in Edward’s world, it was built to accommodate his motorized magic carpet; the boys got popcorn and soda without having to disembark.
The cousin grew serious while steering down the wide aisle of the plush auditorium. “You know, I think Lucy’s theory is sound. Why would Grandpa Lou want to find such a man? He wouldn’t want Trinnie to be tortured again.”
“But he hired someone,” said Tull, fairly pleading.
“Unless,” said the cousin, with a mildly crazed look in his eye, “unless he wanted to find him so he could kill him for what he did to her.” Tull saw that he wasn’t joking. “It is a possibility. I’ve given it some thought.”
“Shit, Edward! Are you saying Grandpa wanted to murder my father? Jesus!”
“Maybe Grandpa did kill him — maybe he found him and killed him and now maybe he wants to be caught — maybe he wants us to catch him. Expose him, so he can repent. Let’s say for argument’s sake that it’s true — that he did ‘the job’—”
“Jesus, Edward!”
“It would have to have haunted the guy through the years, especially since it seems your mom’s forgiven him — forgiven Marcus Weiner, I mean. Or at least would like to have had the chance. She’s still in love with him. I mean, you know she goes and stays in the tower sometimes …” He thwacked Tull’s arm in excitation. “Beginning to sound like a real Lucy Trotter Mystery, ain’t it?”
They left the buggy and sank into the Majestyk’s ergonomic row of Herman Millers.
“Did you bring the letter?” asked the cousin.
Tull nodded.
“Then read it.”
“I already have. About a thousand times.”
“Then read it again—out loud.”
“What’s the point?”
Edward glared. Tull took the document from his pocket, unfolding it like a cynical tourist would a useless map.
“ ‘If I was shocked at the reckless insinuation—’ ”
“From the beginning, Tull.”
“ ‘Mr. Tabori,’ ” he began, annoyed. “ ‘If I was shocked … at the reckless insinuation of your employee … I was absolutely dumbfounded by the letter from your attorney which my office received today.’ New paragraph. ‘I have referred the matter to my own counsel, who would probably object to my sending this note. I suggest that you retract your slanderous allegations or you will find this former customer to be a litigious one. Sincerely, Marcus Weiner.’ ”
Tull paused; his cousin sighed deeply.
“A bit stilted, no? His guilt is apparent.”
“What difference does it make?”
“What difference? I’ll tell you: we found him. Lucy did, anyway.”
The air left Tull’s lungs. “You found him?”
“It seems so.”
“What are you saying? You found him where? How—”
“Good old gumshoe work. And the Internet, I am pleased to say, had nothing to do with it. Lucy spoke with him on the phone, plain as day — not a single e-mail exchanged! Hard man to reach, as you may well imagine.”
Tull broke into a sweat and was unable to swallow. “Where is he?”
“Los Angeles area,” said the cousin, coolly. “We made an appointment to see him. Tomorrow, after school.”
Edward pressed a touch-panel and the lights dimmed. The heavy curtains lifted, layer by crushed gold layer.
“But, does anyone — does anyone know? Did you tell your—”
“God, no! And no one’s going to. Everyone’s going to keep their mouths shut. This is strictly between us.”
The projector was dropping from its hidden perch all along and within moments the MGM lion roared. From the blackness came a noisy choir of ticking clocks. A sundial appeared from stage left, cross-fading with an hourglass from stage right (just like in the old Twilight Zones Tull watched on Thanksgiving Day marathons), followed by myriad antiquey minute-repeater mechanisms, which culminated in a floating Big Ben, its watchtower face erupting in a thunderclap of light. A title bubbled up:
H. G. Wells’s
The Time Machine
“I thought it apropos,” said the cousin. “Except Rod Taylor’s going forward—we need to go backward.”
“This isn’t funny,” said Tull, reaching over to lower the sound. “And I’m not sure I want anyone to be there.”
“You mean, you want to go alone?”
“That’s right.”
“But why?” asked Edward.
Tull began to tremble. “He’s my—father, Edward … and I — well, I just think it would be better if—”
“Your father? Oh no, Tull, no! But we’ll find him, too — of that I am convinced. This is merely the first step.”
“But you said we had an appointment—”
“We do—with Mr. Tabori! Tomorrow at four. Now, can we please watch the movie?”
Tabori & Company, purveyor of antiquarian books, was housed in a former mortuary built in the late twenties, now sitting on the high-end stretch of Melrose Avenue. The anachronistic open-vaulted Gothic-style edifice was a jewel box of vellum and leather, its fine stained-glass panels wittily incorporating caricatures of Tabori père et fils, gentle brotherhood of bibliophiles.
When Emerson Tabori received a call from a girl identifying herself as Lucy Trotter, he immediately confirmed the familial connection — a call from any member of that illustrious clan, no matter how youthful, need be taken with utmost seriousness. To be safe, Lucy said she wished to procure a gift for her grandfather, cannily begging Mr. Tabori’s discretion if he by chance spoke to Mr. Trotter in the interim. (The redhead knew he was a longtime customer.) She was in full detective mode.