Blackmail and White Christmas

The night I rolled into Eastbrook, after fifteen years away, the cold air burned in my lungs as if I’d swallowed a hot coal, my frozen breath was the smoke rising from my chimney esophagus. When I moved uptown, I thought for sure I’d left this small town behind. I thought I’d never walk these streets again, but then I never thought I’d take a gig like this either. Empty pockets are a powerful motivator. 

Turnabout is fair play though, that’s what I tell myself. Policing blackmail is a joke, you always run the risk the blackmailer releases your secrets anyway. You can keep a man behind bars, but what about information? Ideas have a reverse life sentence, once they’re out, they’re out for good. So there’s no choice but to beat them at their own game. That’s what brought Mr. Beckett to my humble office just last night. 

“Mrs. Colt” he said directly, opening the door without knocking.

“Just Colt,” I corrected.

He paused, uneasily, “... Colt, I have a favor to ask.”

“I only do favors for my friends. And I don’t have any friends.”

“A euphemism, please forgive me.” There was a drawl to his voice, a southerner. That would explain the discomfort with dropping the honorific, southern manners and all that. He continued, “I find myself somewhat uncomfortable with the services I’m about to request.”

The disparity between his confidence to open my door with no introduction, and his sheepish need to identify my marital status gave me my first clue of what kind of man Mr. Beckett was. He was a man who was used to being listened to, and who treated appearances as a precious commodity. Probably wealthy, I could use a wealthy client right about now.

“Well I can assure you, discretion comes with the profession. Mister…?”

“Beckett.”

“So Mr. Beckett, what’s so urgent as to bring you into my office when you could have called, but so uncomfortable you can’t admit you’re about to pay for it? I take it you won’t be wanting a receipt then?”

“To be frank, blackmail.”

“I see. That can certainly be a tricky situation. Tell me, what was the nature of the threat?”

“To be upfront ma’am, that’s why I would like to hire you. I’d like to make my own threat.”

“I don’t do blackmail,” is what I should have said. I’ve said it before. 

Being a private eye is an unfortunately rotten profession. When I started down this path I dreamed of being a modern Sherlock Holmes, using my brilliance to help people in their time of desperate need. Instead I mostly find myself helping desperate people confirm their worst suspicions. 

Every urgent act of investigation that doesn’t crush your soul, the police already do for free. So only two types of cases walk through my door. The first kind is people at the end of their rope. These are the cases where the police have done their due diligence and turned up zilch, usually missing persons cases. So, desperate with nowhere else to go, they dig into their pockets and pay me to carry on, holding out hope for good news. But it’s never good news.

The second kind is a case where the client is too embarrassed to go to the police, they need someone a little more subtle. So I spend my days tailing lying business partners, and catfishing cheating spouses, and every other scheme born from suspicious minds. These types of jobs are lose-lose; best case scenario the client pays me a bunch of money to find out they were wrong, and no one’s ever satisfied with being wrong. It only feels like it was worth the trouble when you find out something awful. And sometimes the truth is awful, and then there’s no satisfaction in being right either. Like I said, lose-lose.

But that’s just the above board stuff. I get a lot of skeptics and cynics in my office, but usually, people hesitant to go to the police go by a different label; we usually call them criminals. It’s not worth mentioning all the underhanded crud some folks think I can do for them, but blackmail is an obvious one that falls in a skillset like mine. Investigators find the truth; blackmail is just using the truth as a weapon. It also happens to be a crime.

That night I told him as much at least, “I think you’ve come to the wrong office. I solve crimes for a living, I don’t commit them.”

The snow crunching under my boots was unfortunately quieter than the sound of my growling stomach, and there’s nowhere open around here to grab a bite this late. That’s half the reason I left in the first place. Barely eight o’clock and every store window is dim. The hunger is a reminder of what brings me crawling back now, empty stomachs follow empty pockets.

With one hand I produce the business card from my breast pocket, and with the other I turn up my coat collar against the cold. “Grand Rosewoods: Luxury Bed & Breakfast - Jonathan H. Becket, CEO” it reads in ornate gold letters. I flip it over to the other side. “42 Meadow Lane'' is scribbled along the back in Mr. Beckett’s nearly illegible cursive. This is the place, the sign reads “Eastbrook Cottages.” I’d heard of it before, but I’ve never been inside. I’ve never had a reason or a desire; I still have no desire but I have my reasons.

It was a real sob story. 

“I have worked hard all my life,” Mr. Beckett had said. “And I’m not too coy to admit, by now I have become a man of means.” I don’t get a lot of those in my office.

Maybe I should have already stopped listening by now, but it has been a hard year. It was all I could do to keep the lights on, and I was starting to rethink the cases I had said no to before. And now a client walks in with an offer that could turn it all around. He could put my books back in the black, and even add a little christmas bonus on top. I could at least hear him out.

Beckett owns a chain of luxury B&Bs; he’s got Grand Rosewoods all over the north east. He started with just one, and now he’s opened fifty more. He was set to open one in Eastbrook this year, but he had to stop construction rather suddenly.

You see, Mr. Beckett has a daughter; a daughter who grew up in the lavish conditions his hard work has afforded her. It would seem she’s fallen in with the wrong crowd, and gotten herself in a bit of trouble. The way he tells it, he wanted to make sure she had it better than the lowly life he grew up with, and so he may have been a little indulgent with her. I know the type, there’s nothing daddy’s money can’t fix. Can’t say I relate, but then I’m no angel either. Who knows where I would be if I’d grown up in that world, living the lifestyle of the rich and famous?

So last month Mr. Becket gets a package in the mail. An envelope with pictures of his daughter and the previously mentioned wrong crowd. He didn’t say what was in the photos, and I didn’t ask, but it was clearly something a young lady wouldn’t want the world to see. Also in the envelope was a note that just said, “leave Eastbrook, or else.”

“And you’re sure it was this Miskin?” I asked.

“He practically said as much at the town hall meeting. Even though all my permits were approved, and everything was ready to go, he told me if I didn’t stop construction I’d regret it. You can ask around, there were witnesses. He’s my only competitor in the area, who else would benefit?” I was skeptical, but I listened anyway.

I rang the doorbell. A few obnoxiously cheery bars of the Twelve Days of Christmas play from the door chime. It only takes a moment before the door is answered by a smiling man with a red knit winter sweater and green trousers and suspenders.

“Welcome, come on in,” he waves me inside. “Let’s get you out of the cold. Can I take your coat?” He asks, looking at me over the top of his glasses.

The man looks to be in his late 60’s, maybe 70’s. His hair is solid white and he has a short well trimmed beard. This is him, this rosy cheeked innkeeper is my nefarious blackmailer, Chris Miskin.

“No that’s ok,” I say. “I’m still thawing,” I give a forced smile.

“You must be Jennifer Colt, our last guest for the night.”

“That’s me.”

“Welcome to the Eastbrook Cottages. Are your bags in the car? I can go get them if you’d like.”

“No need, I walked from the bus stop. I travel light.” I gesture to the duffle bag slung over my shoulder.

“Wonderful, it’s amazing how little we really need isn’t it? Let me just grab your room key. But is there anything else I can do for you?”

My stomach growled. “Actually, you wouldn’t know somewhere I could still grab a bite to eat? Maybe a late night diner or something?”

“You’re in luck. Our chef just happened to stop by to prep for tomorrow’s breakfast. I can take you to the kitchen and we’ll see what he can whip up.”

The kitchen is thankfully close at hand. The cottage is quaint, few frills, just homey. I try to keep an eye on the innkeeper as we walk, get a judge for his personality, his ticks, his tells. I rack my brain for a probing but innocuous question, but it’s a short walk.

“Right through this door, Ms. Colt. Why don’t I take your bag on ahead to your room?”

“Thank you sir,” I hand him my bag. It’s light, like I said.

I push through the swinging kitchen door. Standing in the center of a sea of stainless steel furnishings, facing away over a three bay sink, is a tall man in a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He has tattoos, and a backwards ball cap in lieu of a hairnet, and a blue apron tied around his waist.

“Excuse me,” I say, “not to bother you, but the man at the desk said I might be able to get a bite to eat?”

Slowly he turns towards me. “Well I’ll be, Jenny Colt.”

I’m stunned, who in this town would remember me? I’ve been here five minutes and already lost my anonymity.

He slings a dish towel over his shoulder. “Of all the kitchens, in all the restaurants in this little town, you walk into mine.”

Nick White, what are the chances? I thought he was in prison. “Well it would seem this is the only one open. How are you Nick? I thought you were in jail?”

“I’m out on good behavior, finally made the nice list. You know some folks think you’re dead?”

“Well then we’re both doing better than expected I guess.” I look down at my shoes, when I look back up he’s making that goofy grin of his, the one where all his teeth show up to the gums. Why’d it have to be Nick? This could be a distraction.

“So, a bite to eat? I think I can help with that. How do you feel about breakfast for dinner?”

“I could go for an omelet.”

“One omelet coming right up.”

It was a very good omelet.

* * *

The next morning, I’m up with the sun. I try to write down everything I’ve observed so far. My natural inclination is to start looking for motive. Apart from petty competition, what does Miskin have against Beckett? I have to remind myself this isn’t that kind of job. I’m not looking for answers, I’m digging for dirt. I’ve walked long enough through the whiteout of strict dogmas and it’s cold out there; it’s time for me to operate in the gray for once. Miskin kicked a hornets nest, and now he’s gonna get stung. That’s just the way it goes.

I consider for a minute that maybe he’s got nothing to hide, and I won’t find anything. Honestly the thought is a relief at first, but I’ve been in this game too long. I’m not sure any of us are innocent.

I make my way to breakfast. And there he is, Nick White. He looks different. Today he’s wearing a crisp white chef’s jacket, and a chef’s skullcap. His tattoos are covered, and his face is serious but soft as he serves a croque madame to a guest. When he sees me, he flashes that goofy grin again. I look away.

Miskin bounces from table to table, smiling, shaking hands, asking people about their plans for the day. Almost everyone he meets he greets by name. You could call it personable, but maybe he’s just gathering information?

“Good morning Ms. Colt. How did you sleep?”

I had a fantastic sleep to be honest. “Ok,” I say, “can’t complain.”

“Can I call you Jennifer?” he asks.

“Colt,” I almost say, but what comes out is “Jenny.” Jenny? What am I saying? No one has called me that in years, not until last night that is.

“What are your plans while you’re in Eastbook Jenny?” As he asks I can see his eyes glance down at my notebook.

He’s observant, detail oriented you might say. But this isn’t my first rodeo, I can use this to my advantage. “I’m a writer actually,” I say. “I’m just looking for inspiration. Something ‘slice of life,’ you know? Maybe a little small town drama. You wouldn’t happen to know any?”

“Plenty, but I don’t gossip,” he gives me a wink. “I spoke with Nicholas, he says he knows you?”

“Yeah, we hung out a little back in high school. I lived here for a few years before my folks died and I moved in with my cousin in the city.” Was that too much? I don’t need to tell this guy my whole life story. But then again, a little honesty can often throw off suspicion, maybe it is the best policy.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he seems sincere. “Maybe you could ask Nicholas about the goings on in town? After the lunch rush I’m sure he could show you around.”

I give a polite smile and make my way to a table.

A voice from over my shoulder asks, “back to back omelets? Or would you like to see the menu?”

Before I brush him off, I think better of it. I can make the most of this. The Nick I knew wasn’t the most principled person, and for whatever reason he seems to like me. Maybe this will be my informant, intentionally or otherwise.

“I’ll have the french toast actually.” Looking up at him, I realize he’s actually quite handsome. His height used to make him awkward and lanky, but he’s grown into it now.

“A good choice. I’ll get right on it.”

“And Nick?” He pauses on one foot. “Do you have anything going on this evening?”

* * *

Over the next three days I tried every trick in the book to gather intel on my target. I asked the guests what they knew about Miskin. Many of them said they come here for the holidays every year, and he always remembers them, and personal details about their lives. Charming or suspicious?

One morning over breakfast, I asked Miskin directly about his life and how he came to be here. He gave a brief response about “living the dream.” I tried not to seem too keen on the details.

Through it all, I tried to work an angle on Nick, I needed to build his trust. My first day here he took me to an ice cream parlor.

“Ice cream?” I asked incredulous. “It’s snowing outside Nick, it’s not cold enough?”

“It is never too cold for ice cream.”

As much as I hate to admit it, it was worth it. Best scoop I’ve ever had.

Yesterday, he approached me. That’s a good sign, for my purposes at least. He showed me to a coffee shop.

“It’s a perfect atmosphere for writing, don’t you think?”

My jaw hung open confused for a moment, before I remembered that was my cover for being here. It was sweet really. I didn’t get much investigating done that day, but he was right again. The small town ambience was a nice change of pace from city living.

Today I was able to spring my trap. We went for a walk downtown, a walk that I knew would stroll right past Beckett’s unfinished construction.

I looked at the sign, “a new Luxury B&B. Do you think you’ll apply? Step up to the big leagues?”

“And leave the Cottages? Never.”

“Why not?”

“You may not know this Jenny, but not a lot of people will take a chance on an ex-con. Miskin really saved me, helped me turn my life around.”

“He’s an odd fellow Miskin. Can anyone really be that cheery?”

“It rubs off on you.”

It was true. I’d been in a better mood since I got here. A strange one, but a better one. Could I really do it? Could I keep pulling the thread on such a charming old man?

Suddenly Nick leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.

I had no words, but another sound broke the silence. My stomach growled louder than a thunder clap. And I remember why I came, empty stomachs follow-

“Why don’t I cook us up some dinner? At my place?”

And for the first time I can ever remember, I thought to myself, maybe I don’t need the money. A full heart is a powerful motivator.