Hoodoo House

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Charlie arrived at the bar right on time and looked for Declan, but he wasn’t there. Charlie watched Mickey the bartender drop off a couple of mixed drinks to a young couple at one of the window tables. He couldn’t help but smile. The pair appeared to be in their early twenties and were pawing at each other like two newlyweds.

As Mickey walked back to the bar, he said, “I think your date’s here.”

Charlie turned to see Declan coming through the door. He had a troubled look on his face.

What’s he been up to?

“Sorry I took so long,” Declan said with a weary smile. “Where do you want to sit?”

Charlie led Declan to a table near the front window beside the two young lovers, where the natural light filtered in through the windows. Mickey followed them and asked, “The usual?”

“Yes, please,” Charlie replied.

Declan just nodded.

“So, tell me what you’ve found out,” Declan said.

“Well,” Charlie started as he opened his laptop, “this is turning out to be more interesting than I thought. First, I looked into Sinclair Yamada. He’s thirty-three years old, single, born and raised in Halifax, Nova Scotia. He has a master’s degree from Harvard and started work as an editor at Mount Temple Press in 2014. He’s written a dozen essays on the history of the treatment of the Japanese in Canada, which have been published in The Globe and Mail, Maclean’s and the Canadian Historical Review, but has not ventured into fiction.”

“And that’s interesting?” Declan asked.“Anything else on him?”

“Only that he’s a top-level cricket player with a membership at the Glenmore Cricket Club,” Charlie said looking up at Declan, shrugging his shoulders. “Who knew we had a cricket club?” He focused back on the laptop. “He has a Facebook and Instagram page but he appears to have abandoned his X account after posting a nasty comment about Elon Musk.”

Charlie paused as Mickey dropped off their drinks at the table. “Thanks, Mickey.”

“That’s it?” Declan asked as he took a swig from his drink.

“In a way, that’s what’s interesting. He feels a little too normal. I went as deep as I could on the internet—places you don’t want to know about—and found nothing. His remaining social media accounts are restricted to publishing, cricket and the occasional funny animal videos. He’s just a normal guy—who looks pretty hot in a Speedo, by the way.”

“Please tell me that’s not everything.”

“Oh, have a little more faith in me,” Charlie replied, smiling. “Next I started looking into the late Mr Tull. I discovered that he wrote a well-received first novel that was published by Mount Temple Press. Since he took over from Thomas Pritchard at Hoodoo House in 2008, he’s only written four books, and they’ve been mediocre mystery novels. I checked the sales rankings of the books on Amazon and they’re in the basement. Not a good showing for being basically on salary for fifteen years. My question is why would Mount Temple Press publish them? They promote themselves as Canada’s preeminent publisher of history, art and literary fiction, but mystery is a bit outside of their usual catalogue.”

Charlie took a swig of his beer.

“Maybe they just had to put the books out to justify expenses for the foundation?” Declan offered.

“Possibly. But why keep on someone who’s only a passable writer? They could have ditched him at any time.”

“From what we know about him, maybe he had something on someone in the foundation,” Declan replied.

“It also got me wondering about Tull’s predecessor, Thomas Pritchard. He was there from 1988 until his death in 2008. Guess how many of his books he published before landing the spot as first writer-in-residence?”

“Not a clue.”

“The only book I found that was written by Thomas Pritchard before moving into Hoodoo House was published in 1985. A science-fiction fantasy called The World Before Time. Again—don’t you think it’s kinda weird that they would choose to support a writer like that? Not art, not history and definitely not literary fiction.”

“Aren’t we being judgmental?” Declan said, smiling.

“I’m just saying science-fiction fantasy also seems a little out of place in their catalogue. The other thing about Pritchard is that during his twenty years with the foundation he published”—Charlie paused for effect—“one book!”

Charlie said this loudly enough that the young couple sitting next to them jumped.

“Sorry,” Charlie said in a hushed tone. “Just one book. No other short stories or essays. Nothing.”

Declan sat back and took another sip of his scotch.

“It must have been a masterpiece.”

Charlie shook his head. “Not really. The critics called it long-winded and overly prosaic. It was six hundred pages long, but from what I read, it wasn’t something that you would think would take twenty years to write.”

“That is interesting. You know, you’re really good at this.”

“Thank you,” Charlie said, taking a seated bow.

Declan nursed his drink for a moment before asking, “Could the publisher be involved in a tax scam?”

“A question for Mr Attwal, maybe?” Charlie asked.

“Maybe…”

“Anyway, this all got me wondering about Mount Temple Press. They are not as big a player as they used to be. They once represented several high-level Canadian novelists—ones you probably studied in high school.”

“Oh God.”

“Don’t worry. They’re mostly all dead now. There are rumours all over the literary sites that Mount Temple’s been looking for takeover bids from the remaining big players.”

“If they aren’t a heavy hitter, why would anyone want to buy them?” Declan asked.

“Because they still have one money-making property—The Heart’s Shadow series of romance novels written by Marjorie Ellis.”

“Romance novels? And that counts as literary fiction?” Declan said, raising his eyebrows.

“The first book in the series was more along the line of a Jane Austen novel. And money talks. There have been over thirty novels in the series and they’ve brought millions of dollars into the Mount Temple coffers. It’s this series that provides the funding for the Heart’s Shadow Foundation which, in turn, pays the salaries of the writers like Tull and the cost of running Hoodoo House.”

“Interesting.”

Mickey interrupted with another round of drinks.

Declan chewed his lip and drummed his fingers on the table. “So we’ve got a foundation that might be involved in a tax scam, Thomas Pritchard who was apparently paid for twenty years to write one book and the latest writer who mysteriously died at a time when he was blackmailing his editor.”

Charlie nodded and said, “A lot more to this case than a missing computer with a manuscript and sex videos on it.”

Declan turned his head towards the young couple beside them who were clearly eavesdropping. “I’d suggest you turn your ears the other way. And if I find that you’ve breathed a single word of this on social media, I will have my assistant hunt down all of the embarrassing naked images of yourselves that you’ve been sharing with each other and make sure your contacts see each and every one of them.”

The two got up at once and moved to the back of the bar.

Charlie laughed. “It’s not quite that easy.”

Declan shrugged. “They don’t need to know that.”

“So what’s our next move?” Charlie asked.

“I think it’s time for a visit to Hoodoo House. It’s the last place Tull was seen alive and if he hid the computer, it might be there. Can you get in touch with Yamada and set it up?”

“Sure. And what if the computer was stolen?”

Declan finished his drink. “Maybe someone at the house saw something that can point us in the right direction.”

He pulled out his phone and checked the time. “Let’s call it quits for the day. I’m going to the washroom. If Mickey comes by, tell him to put it on my tab.”

Declan set his phone down on the table and made his way to the back of the bar. Just as he walked into the washroom, his phone buzzed. Charlie glanced at the screen. There was a text from someone named Michael. The text preview said ‘Thanks for this afternoon.’

Charlie pondered the message.

It’s none of my business.

When Declan returned, Charlie said nothing.

Declan picked up his phone without looking at it and said, “So, see you at nine tomorrow?”

“As usual,” Charlie replied. “I gotta go.”

Who the fuck is Michael?