The Miser's Dream
Praise for the Eli Marks Mystery Series
“An intriguing cross between noir and cozy, with fascinating details about magic tricks and plenty of quirky characters. An easy, enjoyable read for mystery buffs seeking a bit of an escape from the usual crime fiction fare.”
– Library Journal
“A finely-tuned, diabolical, sneaky, smart, stylish mix of magic and mayhem that plunges our hero Eli through a tangled web of danger and deceit that’ll keep you guessing.”
– Steve Spill, Magician and Author of I Lie For Money
“With twists and turns, flurries of romance, and a cast of characters that seem to be the unholy spawn of The Maltese Falcon and The Third Man, The Miser’s Dream keeps the pages turning and the reader delighted from start to finish.”
– Jeffrey Hatcher, Screenwriter, Mr. Holmes
“I loved this book. From beginning to end I was hooked. The story is fantastic and the cast leaves you wanting to know more. I can’t wait to read the next book in the series.”
– Bookschellves
“This is an instant classic, in a league with Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett and Arthur Conan Doyle.”
– Rosebud Book Reviews
“Has many tricks up its sleeve as its likeable magician-hero. As the body count rises, so does the reading pleasure.”
– Dennis Palumbo, Author of the Daniel Rinaldi Mystery Series
“A wonderfully engaging, delightfully tricky bit of mystery. Fans of magic will delight in John Gaspard’s artful use of the world of magicians, onstage and offstage. It’s a great story and great fun!”
– Jim Steinmeyer, Author of Hiding the Elephant: How
Magicians Invented the Impossible and Learned to Disappear
“A real winner of magical proportions. Filled with snappy, delightful dialogue and plenty of sleight-of-hand humor, Gaspard’s latest mystery in the Eli Marks series does not disappoint.”
– Jessie Chandler, Author of the Shay O’Hanlon Series
“The author does a fantastic job juggling the separate plots and keeping readers’ minds thoroughly engaged…and the pure entertainment of the industry will leave all readers hoping that there will be a ‘number three’ very soon.”
– Suspense Magazine
“The Ambitious Card is intelligently written and...entirely engrossing.”
– Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine
“The deftly-plotted mystery is enriched by Eli’s relationships with his ex-wife, her new husband, his old-school stage magician Uncle Harry, and an interesting collection of people and places in and around St. Paul…This stylish novel is filled with interesting details, snappy dialogue, and appealing characters.”
– More Than a Review
“This story is very well-written and fun to read. I would definitely read another Eli Marks Mystery.”
– A Simple Taste for Reading
The Eli Marks Mystery Series
by John Gaspard
THE AMBITIOUS CARD (#1)
THE BULLET CATCH (#2)
THE MISER’S DREAM (#3)
THE LINKING RINGS (#4)
Short Stories
THE INVISIBLE ASSISTANT
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Copyright
THE MISER’S DREAM
An Eli Marks Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition
Trade paperback edition | October 2015
Henery Press
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2015 by John Gaspard
Author photograph by Bill Arnold
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-943390-13-7
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-943390-14-4
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-943390-15-1
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-943390-16-8
Printed in the United States of America
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks for helping me get this on paper and get it (mostly) right:
Scott Wells, Suzanne, Wayne Kawamoto, Richard Kaufman, Stan Allen, Darwin Ortiz, Joe Diamond, Jim Cunningham, Matt Dunn, Steve Carlson, David Parr, David Gabbay, Joe Gaspard and Amy Oriani.
“In magic, the most suspicious reason
for doing something is no reason at all.”
Darwin Ortiz
Chapter 1
“I’m a hack.”
Holy crap, did I say that out loud? My intention had been to whisper those three words silently to myself, but apparently my brain hadn’t properly communicated that goal to my mouth. Consequently, I must have said it out loud, if the stern look from the lady in front of me was any indication. I put a hand over my mouth and cleared my throat, trying and failing to give the impression I had simply coughed. I turned to my right and recognized a puzzled look from Megan.
“Are you okay?” she whispered, effortlessly speaking at the appropriate volume.
I nodded without conviction and returned my attention to the performer who had inspired this brutal self-assessment.
His name was Quinton Moon, and he was killing me.
Quinton was awesome, and not in the flawed and grossly overused current use of the expression. He inspired awe. I was in awe. He awed me, which is no small feat, particularly since we are both magicians. I’ve seen plenty of magicians in my lifetime. But not one like Quinton Moon.
I had resisted when my Uncle Harry had offered us the tickets because, as a magician, I can honestly say that I may have already seen enough magicians in my lifetime. But Harry had wisely made the offer in the presence of Megan. He had also suggested we dine at Christos in the Union Depot in downtown St. Paul as part of our evening out, and before I knew it, my fate was sealed. Parking was the usual downtown St. Paul nightmare scenario, but dinner was delightful, the hummus to die for, and the wine and the conversation flowed. For a while I almost forgot that my primary goal this evening was to see, of all things, a magician.
Megan declared our walk from dinner to the St. Paul Hotel a “winter wonderland romp,” but in reality it was a wet slog through yet another in a series of recent snowfalls. None of the merchants had shoveled and the snowplows had not effectively cleared the streets from the last dusting of snow, so crossing at each intersection became a high-tension thriller all its own. By the time we made it to the classic hotel’s ornate lobby, my shoes were soaking, my feet were freezing and my mood was grim. For her part, though, Megan couldn’t have been bubblier.
“This is going to be fun,” she gushed as we were directed to the single elevator which offered access to the top floor suite.
“You remember we’re seeing a magician, right?” I asked as the doors slid shut.
An hour later, my shoes were dry, my feet were warm and I had been transported to a Victorian drawing room and a performance of chamber magic that would, in many ways, change my life.
Quinton Moon appeared as if he had stepped directly out of the pages of a Jules Verne novel. Thick sideburns framed a ruggedly handsome face with piercing green eyes and a warm and inviting smile. It was hard not to like him immediately, but I will say I gave it a valiant effort.
He greeted each guest as they arrived, ushering us to our seats while keeping up a steady patter about the room’s history, the night and the snow which continued to gather on the leaded glass windowsills.
The living room of the suite was set with about thirty chairs, all facing the front of the room. The majority of the audience was better dressed than I was, with several gentlemen even sporting tuxes. For his part, Quinton wore a tailored coat, which he removed at the top of the show, revealing a tastefully colorful vest and cummerbund combination.
He was an effortless performer, but I understand enough about the trade to know you only get that relaxed on stage if you’ve really done your homework offstage. The seventy-minute show was an even mix of illusions I’d seen a thousand times before and tricks I was witnessing for the first time. But in Quinton’s hands, even the most clichéd illusions sported a brand new shimmer and shine. Hoary old chestnuts, like The Linking Rings and The Miser’s Dream—tricks which are staples of kids’ birthday parties, for God’s sake—took on an entirely new flavor in his hands, and I watched them all as if for the first time.
The breaking point for me came when he did a seven-minute routine using thimbles. Thimbles! He actually did a routine with thimbles that not only held my attention but transported me. I was transfixed, and my amazement and self-loathing grew concurrently as the evening progressed, until I finally uttered my inner monologue aloud.
“I’m a hack.”
The second time I said it (and every subsequent time, of which there were legion), I was able to keep the words inside my head, which I felt was a victory of sorts. But it didn’t change how I was feeling, with my primary emotion being one of complete impotence.
Megan, of course, was feeling none of this, but responded to each new miracle with the oohs and ahhs which are the lifeblood of magicians. She spent most of the performance literally sitting on the edge of her seat, leaning forward in anticipation of each new illusion. And she wasn’t alone; Quinton held the crowd confidently in the palm of his hand.
His interactions with the audience members were real and genuine and he was never thrown, even when a trick seemed to go slightly awry.
In fact, he got more out of the mistakes that occurred than I generally am able to get when my entire act goes right. Which is rare. Or hardly ever. Let’s call it never.
Speaking in an indefinable accent—was it British? German? Baltic? No, turns out he’s Swiss—Quinton was consistently charming and engaging, often seeming to enjoy the illusions as much or more than the audience. His delight was infectious and the act, which was brilliantly structured, built to a final climax that left the audience stunned.
We sat in silence for several long moments before the small crowd burst into applause, giving him an instant and heartfelt standing ovation—a real one, not the obligatory ovations Minnesotans proffer to virtually any performance which safely reaches its conclusion.
As he had done at the beginning of the evening, Quinton spoke personally with each of us as we left, creating an immediate if affable traffic jam pileup at the suite’s door. Due to the confined nature of the space, I was able to hear his answers to all the questions put to him while we moved closer and closer to the exit.
“Is this the first time you’ve done this show?”
“No, I’ve performed similar shows in London, Zurich, Berlin, and Madrid.”
“Why do it in a hotel suite, couldn’t you make more money in a large theater?”
“Yes, but then I would miss the—how you say?—intimacy of interacting with each member of the audience, such as I am doing now.”
“How are you enjoying Minneapolis?”
“We’re in St. Paul.” (Laughter.)
“What brings you to the Twin Cities?”
“I have a corporate engagement in town and thought this would be an ideal time to present this show as well. Murder a couple of birds, as it were.”
And then it was our turn.
“It was wonderful,” Megan gushed. “Truly wonderful.”
“Thank you,” Quinton replied, turning his thousand-watt smile on Megan, and then on me. Megan grabbed my arm and pulled me forward. “This is my friend Eli. He’s a magician too!”
I hadn’t thought it was possible to feel any worse about myself, but it turns out I was wrong. I suddenly felt about a foot tall. Quinton, however, seemed oddly delighted by the news.
“Not Eli Marks?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said tentatively.
“Brilliant. I had the very great pleasure of meeting your uncle, Harry Marks, at the show last night.”
“Really? He hadn’t mentioned it.”
“Charming gentleman. We had a wonderful conversation. He even talked me into doing a lecture at your magic store.”
“Odd. He didn’t mention that either.”
“He’s quite persuasive.”
“He is that.”
“I must tell you, it certainly was a thrill to finally meet Harry Marks. Something of a legend, isn’t he?”
“He likes to think he is.”
“Well, thank you so much for coming tonight. I look forward to seeing you at your shop.”
“We can’t wait,” Megan said before I could respond.
Quinton smiled at her and then at me and then we were out the door.
The drive back to Minneapolis was a quiet one. I did my best to convince myself this was because the roads were treacherous and I needed to concentrate on my driving. But Megan sensed something was amiss.
“He was really good,” she ventured at one point.
“Yes. Yes he was.”
A few more moments of silence passed.
“Did you enjoy the show?”
“Sure.”
Another pause.
“It doesn’t feel like you enjoyed it.”
“Is this a psychic perception?”
“You don’t have to be psychic to sense you didn’t have much fun.”
She had a point. “It’s hard,” I ventured, “to watch something that good and not feel bad about it. I mean, if you’re in the same business. If that makes any sense.”
“But he’s not better than you,” she said. “Just different.”
“No, he’s better. A lot better.” I turned off the freeway and made a left on 46th Street, moving us as quickly toward Chicago Avenue as the traffic and snow would allow.
“Do you want to hear a joke?”
I turned to look, her adorable face peeking out of a too-big parka, and couldn’t help but smile. “Sure. Tell me a joke.”
“Okay, let me remember how it goes,” she said, biting her lip while working out the joke in her head. “Okay, I got it. How do you climb off an elephant?”
“I don’t know. How do you climb off an elephant?”
“You don’t. You climb off a duck.”
I furrowed my brow and gave her a long look. At least, as long a look as I dared give as the car slipped and slid along the snowy roadway. “Honey, I think you told it wrong.”
She shook her head defiantly. “Nope, that’s the way I heard it.”
“I think the actual joke is, ‘How do you get down from an elephant? You don’t, you get down from a duck.’”
“That’s what I said.”
“I don’t think that’s what you said.”
“My way makes just as much sense as your way.”<
br />
“No,” I began and then stopped, glancing at her again. “Are you doing this to take my mind off the show we just saw and my completely understandable feelings of total and utter inadequacy?”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks. It’s working. But you still got the joke wrong.” Before she could object, I pulled the car into a parking space in front of her duplex.
After a quick kiss goodnight and a final word from her on the subject (“You’re still my favorite magician”), I deposited Megan safely at the front door to her duplex and then crossed Chicago Avenue and began the short and slippery trip down the block to my place. The sidewalk in front of Megan’s building had been recently shoveled, but the owners of many of the apartment buildings across the street had apparently given up. Due to the frequency and amount of snow we’d received so far this year, it was hard to blame them, but even harder to navigate across their sidewalks.
The businesses on the block had done a far better job of keeping up with the various snowfalls than the apartment houses. Consequently, by the time I hit Pepito’s restaurant, I was feeling much steadier on my feet. It was still early enough that the restaurant was going strong, but the Parkway Theater next door was dark and apparently closed for the night.
I glanced up at the theater’s marquee and was amused to see it had changed since that afternoon, when it had read Séance on a Wet Dog Day Afternoon. Now the letters spelled out Big Trouble in Little Chinatown.
The theater had recently undergone a management change and the new manager delighted in putting together what she called Parkway Double Plays, but what my uncle Harry had come to call “Dopey Double Features.” These were pairings of movies which had no actual connection to each other except that the words in their titles could fit together in weird and wonderful ways. Other favorite past Dopey Double Features have included Murder By Death on the Nile, Dr. Strangelove and Death, Boyz in the Parenthood and The Citizen Kane Mutiny.