The Invisible Assistant Read online

  Praise for the Eli Marks Mystery Series

  THE MISER’S DREAM (#3)

  “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

  THE BULLET CATCH (#2)

  “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 (#1)

  “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

  Books in the Eli Marks Mystery Series

  by John Gaspard

  Novels

  THE AMBITIOUS CARD (#1)

  THE BULLET CATCH (#2)

  THE MISER’S DREAM (#3)

  Short Stories

  THE INVISIBLE ASSISTANT

  Copyright

  THE INVISIBLE ASSISTANT

  An Eli Marks Mystery Short Story

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition | September 2016

  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 © 2016 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.

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-129-3

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-130-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  The Invisible Assistant

  “Now for my next effect, I’m going to need another volunteer.”

  I timed this statement to land just as the applause from the last trick was starting to wane. I had completed a well-received Ambitious Card routine with the blonde volunteer to my left (What was her name again? Jan? Jane? Joan?) and now I needed another willing soul to join the two of us onstage.

  “You know, just to ensure I haven’t prearranged any of this, let’s make the selection of the next volunteer more, I don’t know…random,” I said casually, as if I didn’t say that same phrase in that exact same way in every show. “We’ll let chance decide who will join…the two of us here onstage,” I continued, neatly sidestepping the need to remember the blonde’s name.

  “I’m going to toss this into the crowd,” I said, picking up the bowling ball that I had made magically appear earlier in the act. “And whoever catches it…”

  Laughter drowned out the rest of the sentence, as it always did, which was convenient, because I didn’t actually have an ending for that sentence. I dropped the heavy ball to the stage and reached into my bag, pulling out a bright orange Nerf ball.

  “You know, after the unfortunate incident that happened at the last show, let’s try this instead. Heads up!”

  I tossed the Nerf ball into the center of the crowd and a hand shot up and grabbed it in mid-air. “Terrific,” I said, squinting, trying to see past the bright stage lights, which were positioned low and directly in my eyes. That was often the case when doing a corporate show in a low-ceilinged hotel ballroom.

  “Now you toss it somewhere else in the room.” The ball sailed through the room again and was snatched out of the air by another hand. “Great, now to really make it random, why don’t you toss it one more time?”

  The ball sailed across the room, flying over all the folks finishing their identical chicken lunches, and headed straight toward a couple who had taken a standing-room-only spot on the far wall. Fortunately, the man had great timing, reaching out and snatching the ball out of the air before it could hit the woman in the face.

  With the stage lights in my eyes this was all a squinty tableau, but I sensed the man wasn’t enthusiastic about being the final catcher in this selection process. Coaxing would be required.

  “Impressive catch, sir,” I said, stepping to the edge of the stage. “Come on up and give us a hand, will you?” My Uncle Harry had taught me that particular phrasing, which was designed to get the audience to applaud without realizing that they were being asked to do so. They responded on cue and the man who had caught the last toss of the Nerf ball began to move hesitantly toward the front of the room

  In my new position at the lip of the stage, I was finally able to get a look at him as well as the woman he was standing with, although it took me a moment longer than it should have to recognize her.

  It was my ex-wife. And the guy with the great timing who was trudging slowly toward the stage was her relatively new husband.

  “And what is your name?” I asked as he stepped onto the stage. He glared at me because he knew damned well I knew his name, but this was a show after all, and I had to keep things moving.

  “Fred,” he g
rowled.

  “Fred,” I repeated with more pep than was really required. I traditionally always referred to him by his full name and title, Homicide Detective Fred Hutton, but I’d have to set that annoying habit aside for the time being. “Fred, please step to my right, and Joan—” I turned to the blonde.

  “Melissa,” she corrected.

  “Melissa, of course, if you would stand here on my left.”

  I had done this routine maybe a thousand times, but the sudden surprise addition of my ex-wife’s husband onstage, not to mention my ex-wife in the audience, had scrambled the routine in my head.

  “I don’t know if you folks can feel it out there, but there is a real chemistry between these two volunteers,” I lied. In reality, there could not have been less chemistry onstage, as witnessed by the two stiffs flanking me. I soldiered on. “To demonstrate the connection, I propose we perform a short experiment using some playing cards and these two powerfully attractive personalities.” The flat response this elicited from both volunteers actually produced a collective chuckle from the crowd.

  With that, I launched into my Cards Across routine, counting three cards into Melissa’s outstretched hand, and then seven cards into the hand that Homicide Detective Fred Hutton had reluctantly put forward. I caught his eye as I finished counting the seventh card, and the icy stare he gave me told me exactly how much he was enjoying his time onstage.

  “To recap,” I continued, doing my best to remember where I was in the routine and where I needed to go, “I have placed three cards in Melissa’s hand, and seven cards in Fred’s hand.” I nearly used his full name and title, but caught myself at the last second. “Now, with the help of my invisible assistant, we will demonstrate the powerful attraction between these two happy volunteers.”

  This produced another ripple of laughter from the crowd. I plowed forward, using Homicide Detective Fred Hutton’s stone face to great comic effect as I completed each phase of the trick, calling on the help of the invisible assistant at each key point.

  First, when he counted the cards, Homicide Detective Fred Hutton found that he had eight cards. He counted again and found that he now held nine cards. At the same time, the blonde’s stack of cards diminished from three to two and then to one. The routine came to an end with all ten cards in Fred’s hand, and only one card in the blonde’s. That card, of course, was her selected and signed card from the earlier Ambitious Card routine.

  The audience gave the performance a better response than it deserved, and for a brief moment I considered ending the show right there. But I could hear my Uncle Harry’s voice in the back of my head, admonishing me for considering ending the act with volunteers still onstage. “The final applause should be for you and you alone,” he would have said. “No magician worth his salt wants to share a standing ovation with a volunteer.”

  Although such an ovation seemed unlikely, I ushered the two volunteers off the stage, persuading the audience to give them “another well-deserved round of applause.” I then moved right into the classic magical snowstorm effect which I—and virtually every other magician in the world—used as my finale when a big finish was required.

  I triggered my iPod with the remote switch in my pocket and suddenly the room was filled with Nat King Cole singing “Walking in a Winter Wonderland” as a snowstorm appeared in my hands and blew out onto the first three rows. This brought the show to a quasi-rousing close and littered the stage with small bits of white paper, which I’m sure was always a delight for the hotel cleaning staff.

  The corporate meeting planner met me as I came offstage with a big grin and a check that, sadly, wasn’t nearly as large as her smile. All in all, a profitable if slightly bumpy corporate show.

  “Imagine my surprise when I saw you two in the audience,” I said.

  “Imagine my surprise when you called Fred onstage,” replied my ex-wife.

  Homicide Detective Fred Hutton declined to contribute to our conversation, instead choosing to stare at a point somewhere in a far corner of the hotel restaurant. His wife, Deirdre, was taking more delight in his impromptu performance than I might have expected. When we were married, she kept a cool demeanor at nearly all times and rarely took delight in anything, especially me. We were considered to be, as many people later confessed, an odd match.

  “That was a nice routine,” she continued. “With the cards moving between the people and the invisible assistant.”

  “Thanks, that’s Cards Across. A classic. Next time you’re in Vegas, check out Mac King’s version. It’s sublime.” The waitress took that moment to appear with the coffee I had ordered. I stirred in some cream and took a long sip. “Had I known you two wanted to see the show, I would have reserved you some actual seats.”

  “It was something of a spur of the moment decision to come see you.”

  This produced a barely audible grunt from Homicide Detective Fred Hutton.

  “So it wasn’t a mutual decision?” I suggested.

  “Maybe not, but here we are,” Deirdre said, leaning forward, clearly finished with the chitchat portion of the meeting. “I want to get your take on something. A case we’re working on.”

  While we were married, Deirdre had risen steadily through the District Attorney’s office and was now well ensconced, and well respected, as an assistant DA. Her close working relationship with the Minneapolis Police Department’s Homicide division had produced several stunning murder convictions and one divorce. This last occurrence was due primarily to her too-close working relationship with Homicide Detective Fred Hutton, although I’m sure that somewhere, somehow she blamed me.

  “You’ve read about the Josiah Manning murder-suicide?” she asked.

  I nodded and took another sip of coffee. “I heard about it in passing,” I said. “But I don’t know any of the details.”

  “But you know who Josiah Manning was?”

  I shrugged. “He was a big anti-death penalty, anti-suicide guy, right?”

  “The biggest.”

  “And he killed someone in the opposition?”

  “Not just someone. He basically killed the opposition. Harley Keller, the leader of what people had come to call the pro-death movement.”

  “Because he believed in suicide?”

  “More than believed. Harley Keller was a true zealot. He was the suicide poster child.”

  “They have that? Weird.” Although my alleged quip drew only a scowl from Deirdre, I thought I detected the faintest hint of a smile on Homicide Detective Fred Hutton’s lips. Then it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “So, let me get this straight: The anti-suicide guy, who believed fervently in the sanctity of life, murdered the pro-suicide guy and then to top it all off, he killed himself?”

  “That’s what the police believe,” Deirdre said, throwing a sidelong glance at her husband. He did not return it.

  “Well, get Alanis Morissette on the line, because that’s pretty ironic.”

  Deirdre sighed. “Eli, do you have any cultural references that are less than twenty years old?”

  I was tempted to dazzle her with a Nipsey Russell-style poem on the topic, but thought better of it. “So your opinion differs from that of the Homicide department?”

  “On several key points, yes,” she said as she began to dig through her purse. “Which is why I wanted to talk to you. Why I wanted both of us to talk to you,” she added. “On occasion you’ve offered a unique perspective that I think could be useful in this instance.”

  “I believe the phrase you used when we were married was, ‘You have a bizarre way of looking at things.’”

  “Yes,” she said, leaving it at that. She pulled an iPad from the depths of her purse. “I want you to look at this.” She opened the cover, clicking and swiping until she’d found what she was looking for. “This is about four years old, and is just one of many, many similar videos.”

&
nbsp; She hit a play button and handed me the iPad. I tilted it so that Homicide Detective Fred Hutton could see as well, but he waved me away.

  “I’ve seen it,” he said, crossing his arms and slouching back into his chair, setting his gaze once again on an invisible point across the room.

  The sound of an argument pulled my attention back to the iPad. Actually, it wasn’t technically an argument, as only one person was talking. Or, more accurately, shouting.

  “That’s Harley Keller,” Deirdre pointed out as I looked at the man on the screen. He was gaunt and pale, a crew cut consisting of wisps of white hair covering his large bony head. His eyes, which burned at someone off-camera, were a sharp steely blue. He was shouting, ranting really, so vehemently that small specks of white spittle were visible around his lips and on his chin.

  The video cut at that point to another man who listened intently to the bile being thrown at him. Like Harley, he appeared to be in his early sixties, but there was a calmness and warmth to him that made him seem much younger.

  “Josiah Manning?” I suggested, beating Deirdre to the punch. She nodded and I turned back to the screen. The show they were appearing on wasn’t The Charlie Rose Show, but they certainly could have been sued by Charlie’s people. They had blatantly lifted the program’s distinctive look, right down to the same round oak table and deep dark backdrop.

  “Death is a basic human right,” Harley was shouting. “A person has a right to their death just as they have a right to their life. If I wish to end my life, that is my personal decision, and you and the public and the state have no right to stand in the way of my decision.” He stared daggers at Josiah, seeming to dare him to speak.