Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 09/01/12 (9 page)

“You bet. It was the latest thing back in 1988.” I was now into the DMV records.
“2006 Subaru Outback, registered to Gregory Aaron Lafarge. 13606 SW Gaston
Circle.”

“Gregory, eh? Your young lady addressed him as Quinn.”

“My fiancée” I lied, just to needle him. “Candy is only a nickname, you know. Her
real name is Martina McBride.”

“You are a poor liar, Doctor. I happen to know that her given name is Candace
Blotnick.”

“Don’t tell me. You somehow deduced this from her accent, her brand of
cigarettes, or the chips in her fingernail polish.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I searched her purse while she was busy trying to save you
from that Lafarge fellow.”

I had now breached another supposedly secure site. “No criminal record,” I said.
“At least under that name. And for your information, I was just about to open a
can of whoop-ass on him when she interfered.”

“Of course you were.”

 
The bossy lady in my GPS device, whom I affectionately call Gypsy,
led us across the Willamette River and up the steep slope of Council Crest. That
hill is a mare’s nest of twisty streets and treacherous dead ends, but once
she’d sorted through Gaston Lane, Gaston Avenue, Gaston Street, Gaston Drive,
and Gaston Court, she brought us at last to the Lafarge abode.

It was a canary-yellow house with a plastic picket fence, a deflowered dogwood,
and a bunch of flowers I couldn’t name. There was no garage, and the carport was
empty.

“Our bird is out.”

“So it would seem,” Hobbs said. “Still, we had best make sure.” And before I
could stop him, he hopped out, trotted up the walk, and pressed a finger to the
doorbell.

I watched from the car, wishing I’d brought a baseball bat, or my set of ninja
stars. I didn’t want to end up like that gnome back at the food-cart lot.

No answer.

“Too bad,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Holding up a finger, Hobbs strode briskly along the front of the house, into the
carport, and opened a gate into the backyard. The finger beckoned me to
follow.

“Damn,” I said. But I went. And stopped short, staring.

The front yard had shown the hand of a skilled gardener, but the back was where
that gardener really went to town. And that person had an inordinate fondness
for garden gnomes. They peeked from under bushes, lurked behind flowerpots, and
lounged upon birdbaths.

“Bingo,” I said.

“Or in the modern vernacular,” Hobbs said, “cowabunga.”

I’d counted over a dozen gnomes when a patio door rolled open and a head emerged,
bundled in a fluffy white towel.

“What the hell,” said the head, “are you doing in my yard?”

The head belonged to a woman swathed in a pink bathrobe and fluffy white
slippers.

Hobbs said, “I am pleased to inform you, madam, that your yard is being
considered for a feature article in
Horticulture
magazine. Tell me, is
this masterpiece of your own design or have you employed a team of
professionals?”

“If you’re from
Horticulture,”
the woman said, “I’m Lady Gaga.” She
thrust a hand through the door, a hand clutching a telephone. “See this? I’m
already dialing nine-one-one.”

“I apologize for the subterfuge. We were merely seeking an old chum of ours, Mr.
Gregory Lafarge.”

“You’re friends of Greg’s? Now I’m
really
calling the cops.”

“Please, good lady. I entreat you. Could you not tell us when he will
return?”

“Never, I hope. Next time I see that bastard it will be in court. Now get your
butts off my property.”

Hobbs backed quickly toward the gate. “One last question, if I may. When you last
saw your Greg, was he in the habit of smashing garden gnomes?”

The woman was speaking into the phone.

“If you’re still here when I hang up,” she yelled, “I’ll be smashing garden
gnomes over your heads!”

 
Hobbs was feeling grumpy. I would be too, if I’d just paid that
wiseass Whitey another twenty bucks to find out where Lafarge had parked his car
the night before.

We sat in the Cruiser on SE 7th Avenue, a street of mixed business and
residential buildings, with a low-hanging elm shading us from the streetlights.
At last, shortly after 9 p.m., Lafarge’s Subaru tooled past and parked on a dark
side street.

At first I feared Whitey had stiffed us, for the man who emerged wore a preppy
golf jacket and chinos. But the jacket came off and the chinos came down,
revealing the familiar leather vest, sleeveless T-shirt, and too-tight jeans.
Popping the rear hatch, Lafarge extracted his Cervélo bike and leaned it against
the car as he donned one more article of clothing—a dark sweatshirt with a
hood.

“Don’t say it,” I told Hobbs. “I know. Cowabunga.”

Lafarge sped off in the direction of the food-cart court, and I drove a parallel
street, just close enough to follow. After a quick stop at Cartopia—looking for
me and Candy, no doubt—he left the bright lights behind and sped off in a zigzag
pattern through the residential neighborhood.

I followed, turning off my lights so as not to alert him, and pulled over on
several occasions when we had a clear view of his progress. Hobbs fretted all
the while. Each time I stopped he admonished me not to lose our quarry, while
every time we got under way he warned me against getting too close. Hobbs will
make a fine mother some day.

On we went, heading alternately north and east, through a neighborhood
undoubtedly rich in garden gnomes, and I feared at any moment he would pull into
a dark driveway and vanish.

At last he turned right onto Belmont, another major through-street, and swung to
a stop at a row of bicycle racks at the corner of 34th Avenue, just outside
Stumptown Coffee.

Several nearby businesses were open. Aside from the coffee shop, his most likely
destinations seemed the swanky Aalto Lounge & Bistro, the neighborhood
tavern called the Belmont Inn, or Zupan’s Market, the grocer of choice for
neo-hippies. I would have laid money on the Belmont Inn, but Lafarge fooled me
by slipping into the gaudily painted Laughing Planet Café.

Then there was nothing to do but wait, which I did by leaning back to rest my
eyes. It didn’t take both of us to watch the front door of the cafe.

Almost at once I got a punch in the arm.

“Watson, look!”

I bolted erect. “Is he leaving?”

“No. But look who is arriving. Our greedy friend Whitey.”

He was right. The white-haired kid was just now chaining his bike to the rack,
right next to Lafarge’s. A moment later he strode down the block and entered the
Laughing Planet.

“Dining on me, no doubt,” Hobbs said sourly.

“Look on the bright side,” I said. “Maybe he’ll get something on the bandit. You
have another twenty on you?”

Hobbs looked even more sour. “No. Still, I must know what he’s doing here.”

“Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Kids get hungry too. You were a kid once, weren’t
you?”

The look he gave me chilled me to my heels.

“Silly question. Of course you weren’t.” Since he was already mad, I plunged
ahead. “How does this reincarnation stuff work, anyway? Were you born with
Holmes’s knowledge and memories full-blown in your head, or did they sort of
creep up on you?”

Hobbs’s face softened, and I thought he might actually tell me. But before he
could speak the door behind me opened and a dark figure slipped into the
Cruiser. We swung about, staring.

“You bozos had me fooled last night,” Lafarge said, “but going to my house was a
stupid play.” He showed us the snout of a gun. “Hands on the ceiling, quick. And
they better be empty.”

We complied.

Hobbs was calm. “Your wife told you.”

“She hates me,” Lafarge said, “but she loves me too.”

A dark panel van the size of a UPS truck stopped at the corner ahead, blocking us
from the beams of oncoming traffic. I tensed.

“Are you going to shoot us?”

“I might. You used Candy to get to me. That I cannot forgive.”

I said, “Huh?” but the word was drowned out by a clashing and clattering of
metal. Hobbs and I turned to stare at the panel van. There was a flurry of
activity between the truck and the sidewalk. Then the doors slammed shut, and
the vehicle heaved into motion and spurted up Belmont toward 39th.

Hobbs said, “The bicycles.”

Moments before, the racks next to Stumptown had held as many as twenty bikes.
Those racks were now bare, and the pavement was littered with mangled
U-locks.

Lafarge said something unprintable. “Out of the car, you two. Quick! And leave
the keys.”

“What?”

He waved the gun at my nose. “Now.”

I edged out of my seat, careful to grab my laptop, while Hobbs exited onto the
sidewalk.

Lafarge jumped out and slid into the driver’s seat. “I’ll deal with you later,”
he said.

I stood watching the big blue rear end of my beloved Cruiser roaring off after
the panel van.

I shot Hobbs a disgusted look. “Did that make any sense to you?”

“I admit I am somewhat puzzled,” he said. “What did he mean by ‘She hates me, but
she still loves me’?”

“You,” said a new voice, “are such a dweeb.”

We turned to stare at Whitey, who stood on the sidewalk behind Hobbs.

I said, “What are you doing here?”

He made a face at me and turned on Hobbs. “What are you going to do to get my
bike back?”

 
As it developed, we were not entirely without resources. My GPS was
rigged so I could follow it on my laptop, allowing me to track the progress of
the Cruiser. But the car was already two miles away, and still moving. And we
were on foot.

“I have my bus pass,” Hobbs said. “How about you two?”

“Bus?” Whitey and I looked at each other. His grimace mirrored my own.

“In that case,” said Hobbs, “we’ll hire a cab.”

“You said you were out of cash.”

“It happens I am. But I know someone who has at least forty-five of my
dollars.”

Whitey snorted. “No way. You jerks got me into this.”

And the stalemate might have continued, had not a middle-aged couple chosen that
moment to exit the coffee shop and stroll to their car.

Whitey sank to his knees, emitting the most pitiful wail. His sobs were so
heart-wrenching that I involuntary took a step forward, compelled to comfort
him. Then I remembered who I was dealing with.

The couple on the sidewalk rushed forward, the woman kneeling to wrap an arm
about the kid’s shoulders while the man glared suspiciously at Hobbs and me.

“What is it, son?” the woman said. “Are these men bothering you?”

“Nah,” Whitey said between sniffs. “They’re trying to help me. But someone just
stole my bike, and we have no way to follow.”

The man looked undecided, so I chimed in. “It’s true. We could get the boy’s bike
back, if only we had a ride.”

“Where do you want to go?” The guy was still doubtful.

The blip on my computer was now stationary. Lafarge appeared to have stopped.

“Sixtieth and Burnside,” I said. “We hate to inconvenience you, but we really do
want to help the boy.”

At this point, Whitey took his cue and delivered a wonderfully mournful howl.

“You poor dear,” the woman told him, “of course we’ll help.”

 
On the way, Hobbs regaled the couple with deductions regarding their
personal habits and peccadilloes, and by the time we reached the Cruiser they
were glad to be rid of us.

The car was parked a block and a half off Burnside. I was relieved to find it
undamaged.

“So you found the dweebmobile,” Whitey said. “Now what?”

“I suggest,” Hobbs said, “that we seek out a nearby bicycle shop.”

Whitey pointed. “Two blocks over. I checked it out once, but the place gave me
the creeps.”

I could see why. The entrance to Wheels Within Wheels looked seedy and
uninviting. A dusty display window held old bikes and pieces of bikes. One sign
said repairs, one said bikes bot and sold, and another said closed. The place
appeared thoroughly deserted.

Hobbs stood with his head at an odd angle. “Do you gentlemen hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Voices. And if I am not mistaken, the clink of metal upon metal. This way.”

He scampered off, as he does when excited, and it was all Whitey and I could do
to keep up. Racing around the block, Hobbs halted at a dark, unmarked warehouse
directly behind the bike shop.

“This place,” Hobbs whispered, “is not quite so deserted.”

By now, I too heard muted voices. The building had several windows, high up, from
which light glowed.

“Watson,” Hobbs said, “I trust you have brought your service revolver?”

“Wilder. And you know I hate guns.”

Whitey snickered.

“In that case,” Hobbs said, “I must insist the lad return to the car and await
our return. This could prove dangerous, and we cannot be responsible for his
safety.”

“No chance,” Whitey said.

I shrugged. “Look on the bright side. If he’s killed, you can frisk him and get
your money back.”

Hobbs made a disapproving face as he set to work examining the exterior of the
warehouse.

The front of the building bore a large garage door, easily big enough to
accommodate the van carrying the bicycles. An unmarked people-sized door was the
only other entrance from the street. Hobbs tested the knob and shook his
head.

“Before we risk our necks here,” I said, “I’ll remind you of our mission. We’re
chasing the Garden Gnome Bandit. Do we really care about a bunch of stolen
bikes?”

Whitey sputtered in the darkness. I ignored him.

“Our bandit is nearby,” Hobbs said. “Though we have not yet discerned the
importance of this bicycle theft, it is possible the two enterprises are
related.”

Then he was on the move, picking his way through the undergrowth along the side
of the building, and I had no choice but to follow.

As Hobbs rounded the back corner of the warehouse, I heard a soft exclamation of
delight. It sounded like “Cowabunga.”