Falling Problem: Felix Green Mysteries

By Andrew Stanek

Vincent Quay was not the sort of person who would get mixed up in anything dangerous, but something isn't right. When Quay calls for the services of Great Redmond's most famous murder detective, and then is found dead the next day, there is every reason to believe he knew he was going to be murdered. Kleptomaniac detective Felix Green and his partner Sam Alders are left struggling to understand Quay's final moments in Falling Problem.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Stanek
• Release date: Jun 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513075280

Book preview

Chapter 1

They say she up and dropped dead, just like that. The sandy-haired woman across the room snapped her fingers. Can you believe that? I mean, you hear things like that in the news but to think that it might actually happen to someone you know... Isn’t it just perfectly awful?

Vincent Quay wasn’t quite sure if the sandy-haired woman was talking to him, or to herself, or to anyone else, for that matter. Whoever she was talking to, it certainly wasn’t the balding man opposite her, who was whittling away at a solid block of wood with a knife and a tool that resembled a file. The woodcarver was tending to his craft with single-minded zeal and showed no particular interest in anything the sandy-haired woman was saying. He simply chipped away at his wooden block, in the process scattering wood shavings all over the well-kept living room rug.

Nor, for that matter, was it likely, or even possible, that the sandy-haired woman was talking to their kindly landlord and lady, Mary and Fred Knight. The elderly couple had been too polite to ask the woodcarver - Quay could not quite remember the woodcarver’s name - something Novak, maybe - to stop polluting their well-kept and tastefully decorated living room with the refuse of his art. Quay suspected they had gone to get a vacuum, but in any case, both had long since left, so the sandy-haired woman could not possibly be talking to either of them.

Equally impossible was the idea that she might be talking to the Crampton girl, who often prattled with the sandy-haired woman but had left half an hour ago with some excuse about the grocery shopping she needed to do. Charlie Weigand (or was it Wiggins?) was fiddling with his phone, quite oblivious to the outside world. Quay reflected that given his level of apparent immersion, one might easily have birthed a baby elephant in the room before he would have even looked up.

As there was no one else in the room, the other tenants of the building having made themselves scarce, that could only lead Vincent Quay to the conclusion that the obnoxious sandy-haired woman was talking to him. However, this idea was as thoroughly absurd as the rest, since Quay did not even know the young woman’s name. He grappled mentally for a moment. K - something - Kelly - no, Karen, that was it, her name was Karen. But Karen could not mean to speak to him, since he was clear across the room from her, sitting in the big, comfy armchair by the empty fireplace quite pointedly reading his paper and not looking at her, and having never had any meaningful social contact with her. So no, she could not possibly have been talking to him either.

Which led to only one conclusion. She was talking to herself. Vincent allowed himself a small, perhaps slightly sardonic smile. Talking to yourself was the first sign of insanity.

Oblivious to his musings and her own lack of a conversation partner, Karen continued her soliloquy.

It was all very sudden though, I understand. I wasn’t there myself of course, but to think that she just... died... was alive one moment and dead the next... it’s unbelievable, isn’t it? Personally, I think there must have been more to it. It’s all a bit suspicious, don’t you think?

Her last words echoed in Vincent’s mind. They had risen to a slightly shriller pitch than Vincent was accustomed to hearing in Karen’s annoying intonations. It’s all a bit suspicious, don’t you think? That implied that she believed she was talking to someone, while Vincent had just deduced that she was in fact talking to no one. But she thought she was talking to someone. An invisible friend, perhaps? His curiosity suitably peaked, Vincent peeled his eyes away from his newspaper (which he had stopped reading some time ago anyway, his mental processes having instead been consumed with annoyance at Karen’s relentless noisemaking) and glanced at Karen, to see who she might have believed she was talking to.

Karen’s gaze was lingering expectantly on the woodcarver, Novak, but Novak merely continued to shave away at his block of wood and did not issue a response. Karen, however, did not seem to notice. Her compulsion to fill the silent places of the world with chatter of her own design was apparently too powerful, and she opened her mouth to continue her story.

However, just at that moment, a kindly old iron-haired woman with a terrible stoop tiptoed into the room via the sidedoor, dragging a vacuum cleaner behind her. The aged landlady turned on the device, creating a ferocious roaring sound, and Karen - now suitably drowned out - finally gave up her attempts at conversation with no one. Looking despondent and resentful, she turned and marched from the room, her sandy head of hair disappearing up the adjoining staircase a few moments later.

Vincent turned his attention back to the newspaper while Mary Knight, the landlady, energetically vacuumed the unsightly shavings that the woodcarver had scattered about off the rug and fine-finished hardwood floor. This was a Sisyphean task, as Novak was still hacking away at his block of wood with particular vigor, creating nearly as many shavings as Mary endeavored to clean up. However, after several standoffish minutes, a second elderly figure - a tall but fragile old man with a dustpan and a broom - entered the room and began to aid the woman, attacking the newly created fragments while the vacuum disposed of the old ones. A few minutes after that, the room was clean, or as clean as could be expected under the circumstances.

The old man, Fred Knight, gave a satisfied nod and went to put the dustpan away, and the noise of the vacuum died down. Mary Knight stood only a foot or so away from Vincent as she struggled to manually roll the machine’s chord into its proper configuration with her arthritic fingers.

How are you today, Mr. Quay? the landlady asked as she did this. Any observations for us? She gave him an indulgent smile.

Now, this question was definitely directed at Vincent and warranted a response. He sighed and put his paper down.

Yes, Mrs. Knight. I have noticed that everyone seems very intent on their own business. Vincent’s eyes slid from Novak, the woodcarver, to the young Mr. Willy or Wiggins or whatever his name was, tinkering obsessively with his phone.

Ah well, that’s alright, isn’t it? the old woman said with a benign smile. People are best to stick to their own business and keep themselves to themselves, don’t you agree?

Vincent did not entirely agree, but he identified the question as being sufficiently rhetorical that he need not respond to it. He gave a small affirming nod and reached to pick his paper back up.

But you don’t exactly keep yourself to yourself, do you Mr. Quay? the old woman continued as she struggled to wind the chord.

I don’t know what you mean.

Well, Mr. Quay, I think of all my tenants you are the oddest one. I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so.

You’re forgiven, Vincent said a little cooly.

You have such a funny look in your eyes, like your brain is always working a mile a minute, and I swear that you always know where everyone is and what they’re up to. That’s very odd, isn’t it?

Vincent gave no answer to this. Instead, he stood and gently took the power cord from the old woman.

Perhaps I could help you with this, Vincent said stiffly, winding the cable and hooking it back into its proper place. You might consider getting a vacuum with one of those spring-loaded cords in the future. It will be easier to wind up.

Oh yes, you’re absolutely right, Mary Knight tittered. Thank you, Mr. Quay.

And with that she wheeled the vacuum cleaner out of the room.

Vincent reseated himself and took up his newspaper, intending to continue where he’d left off, but as he did, his elbow came into contact with a glass of water on the stand next to the chair, knocking it over. The water spilled all over the chair. Cursing quietly, Vincent rose, righted the glass, and wiped himself off, then looked around for a new seat, preferably one that had not been soaked. He decided on the padded chair that Karen had recently vacated, across from the woodcarver, and relocated there while trying to work out who might have put the glass of water on the stand. The glass certainly had not been his.

He crossed the room and took the chair opposite Novak, crossed one leg over the other, and resumed reading his paper. For a few minutes there was silence in the room, punctuated only by the tap-tap-tap of Charlie whathisname fiddling with his phone and the repetitive, quiet slicing noise of Novak’s knife against the wood.

Then, suddenly, Novak’s gravely voice broke the silence.

Every day Ms. Knight asks you if you’ve made any observations, the woodcarver said, though he did not look up from his work. That’s pretty odd if you ask me. He paused for a moment, carefully guiding his knife through a length of wood. Why do you think she does that? he concluded as a thin, winding shaving fell to the recently vacuumed floor.

That made twice in as many minutes that someone had tried to engage him, Vincent thought with annoyance.

I don’t know, he said gruffly. Vincent’s gaze remained firmly on his paper.

I won’t deny that she’s an odd one, that Ms. Knight, Novak continued, his voice sinking to a low baritone. She tried to vacuum this hardwood floor - for example. In fact, I’d say she and her husband are both a bit batty, if you ask me. But she must have some reason for asking you about what you’ve seen. She does it every day.

I said I don’t know. She must just think I notice things.

Regular detective, are you? Novak asked, between motions of his carving knife.

No. I just notice what anyone with two eyes should.

Then isn’t it strange that she only asks you for your thoughts? It’s almost as if she thinks you’re keeping an eye on everyone.

Don’t be absurd, Vincent scoffed, turning the page of his paper, though he had not read the last one.

Novak made a dissatisfied noise. That was interesting what you said, though, Novak continued. About how absorbed everyone was in their own business?

Clearly I was wrong, Vincent said, the hint of a growl seeping into his voice. You seem to have been paying pretty close attention alright.

A small smile crept onto Novak’s face.

Oh, don’t mind me, Vincent. I was just wondering because no one ever asks for my opinions. And I’m starting to develop a pretty strong opinion on the people in this building.

And what opinion is that?

The woodcarver’s smile broadened. If you ask me, everyone in this building is a little strange. That woman, Sandy, who won’t stop talking... she’s strange. Our landlord and landlady are a bit strange too. They always seem happy enough but they ask peculiar questions, like Mary did just now. That Crampton girl is weird too. She’s always in a hurry, dashing off to who knows where. Weigand over there hardly ever looks up from his phone. And I don’t think I’ve ever even seen the tenant on the top floor... and then there’s you... If I didn’t know better, I say that you are up to something, Mr. Quay. I think you are keeping an eye on everyone.

I’m not keeping an eye on anyone, Vincent replied scornfully, turning back to his paper. You’re the one with a screw loose, Novak. I don’t know what in the hell you’re trying to say but it sounds like paranoia to me, and you never stop cutting that damn wood.

Novak turned his eyes back to his carving.

Woodcarving teaches you a lot about people, he whispered. The people are like the wood. The knife goes in... and you peel back the layers... he shaved off another segment as he spoke. And you never know what you’ll find inside. It may be beautiful or it may be ugly...

Vincent stared at him.

Novak continued staring at his wood for a few seconds then jerked suddenly, almost as if he was remembering that he was not alone. He shook himself, then stood, scattering additional wood shavings everywhere.

I think I’ll finish this piece in my room, he announced, and fled into the hallway and up the stairs without another look back.

Vincent followed him with astonished eyes.

They’re all crazies, he muttered vaguely to himself, and again turned the page of his paper. Haven’t had a proper, sane conversation since I got here.

Shaking his head, Vincent returned to his paper. The next few minutes passed in a renewed silence, the only remaining sound the vigorous tappings of the Weigand boy as he punched at the touchscreen of his phone like it was his worst enemy’s gut. Vincent ignored him until, all of a sudden, Weigand leapt out of his chair, a look of incredulous joy on his face.

I did it! he declared suddenly, arms outstretched in an expression of triumph. I’m rich! Weigand was short and not particularly lithe or athletic, but he nevertheless managed to start to do an odd sort of a jig, rapidly alternating between each leg. This piqued Vincent’s curiosity sufficiently that he was again compelled to cast his paper aside and turn a critical eye onto the celebrating young man.

What’s happened? Vincent asked once Charles Weigand had calmed sufficiently.

I’ve closed a deal that’s going to make me ten million dollars, Weigand replied, almost breathless. I’ve never had this much money before - what do you think I should buy first - a house? A car?

How did you make this money?

I closed a deal - bond trading - I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t think I’d win the auction - I couldn’t breathe towards the end - but they’re mine now...

You bought some bonds, I take it?

Yes, at below market price... I’m rich! I have to tell Amanda! Weigand snatched his phone back up. His hands were trembling so badly that he nearly fumbled his phone several times. When he managed to dial the number, he put the device to his ear and waited, then tucked it away in vague disappointment.

She’s not there, he said aloud. Oh well, I’ll just ask her to dinner and surprise her with the news. What do you think?

Vincent was still turning over Weigand’s claim to wealth with a certain amount of incredulity. His scrutinizing eye lingered on the patch in the young man’s trousers and the weatherbeaten look of his jacket.

I don’t know what to think, Vincent said. Do you have a reservation at a suitable restaurant? It’ll probably be hard to get in anywhere if you don’t.

Weigand’s face fell. No, I don’t have anything planned. I guess I’ll have to ask her here for dinner. Then he brightened again. But she won’t suspect a thing this way. It’s incredible news, isn’t it?

Indeed, Vincent replied, his reply remarkably devoid of enthusiasm. How did you say you made this fortune again?

Bonds. There was an auction. I bought millions worth.

But you managed to get them at below market price, you said.

Oh yes, well below. It wasn’t a public auction, you see. Weigand, now appearing both jovial and chatty, fell into the chair across from Vincent. But then a lot of bond trading is, you know. Dark markets. Straight transactions between sellers and buyers, no exchange in between. I managed to get an invite to this auction but I never thought I’d be able to get the bonds for this low. It’s a steal. And here’s the thing - I’ve already got a buyer lined up. They’ll turnover in a week and I’ll make millions.

Vincent could not immediately think of an answer to this, so he simply nodded his head. Well done, he said stiffly. Congratulations. I suppose you’ll be leaving this place behind then.

Oh yes. It’s not bad, but I think I’ll buy a house, Weigand said cheerily. And a nice car, and then I’ll invest the rest. If I do it right, I’ll never have to work again! Neither will Amanda. She’ll be so thrilled. He walked away with a spring in his step, positively whistling. Vincent watched him go for a second, then turned his paper to the business page, but no sooner had he opened it than a dark-haired young woman in glasses descended the staircase, a tight knot of her hair bobbing ferociously behind her.

Vincent only vaguely recognized the woman; he knew her as one of the upstairs residents.

She poked her head into the room and scanned it, quickly spotting Vincent.

Excuse me, she asked, very much with the air of someone who did not at all wish to be excused. Have you been making the terrible racket I’ve been hearing?

No. Mr. Weigand just left. He was extremely excited about something. Claimed he’d made a lot of money.

The young woman adjusted her glasses in an agitated sort of a way.

Well, if you see him again, please tell him to be quiet. I’m working on my thesis and I need silence. Loud noises disrupt my concentration.

I see, Vincent replied. The young woman disappeared. Once she had gone, he shook his head.

Loud noises also disrupt my concentration, he muttered, and turned back to his paper. At this rate, he doubted he’d ever get as far as the weather.

Chapter 2

That evening, Vincent came down to dinner late. Most of the rest of the building had already arrived. The woodcarver sat opposite him at the large table, whittling away at a new block of wood. Charles Weigand was positively glowing at the far end of the table, a girl with mouse-brown hair that Vincent was quite positive he’d never seen before looking around curiously at the occupants. Sandy-haired Karen Warner prattled vacuously with her friend Elizabeth Crampton - Elizabeth seemed to have just enough energy to make indecisive noises and nod whenever seemed appropriate. Teresa Thomas was nowhere to be seen, but that was probably to be expected, Vincent decided. She, like everyone else in the building, seemed particularly obsessed with her own business and wasn’t likely to interrupt it for the sake of something petty like dinner.

After a few minutes, the elderly Mary and Fred Knight emerged from the kitchen, laden with delicious food for the meal. Elizabeth hurriedly rose to help them with the dishes and soon everyone was helping themselves to various foodstuffs, potatoes, salads, wraps, and a large pot of stew. Even Novak put down his precious block of wood for the sake of dinner. Only the absent Ms. Thomas, Vincent reflected, remained in her room, too obsessed with her thesis to eat.

The start of the meal interrupted any remaining conversation, save sporadic chatter from the sandy-haired woman. Mary and Fred Knight smiled politely around at everyone, nodding and asking after the quality of the meal, but otherwise saying little. Charlie Weigand, however, kept shooting sidelong glances at Amanda, looking as if he was about to explode. By the time dessert came around, he seemed able to contain himself no longer.

Amanda, I have something to tell you, he blurted out.

Amanda looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and embarrassment.

Can it wait, Charlie? she asked quietly.

No, Charlie said, shaking his head with excitement. It’s very important. You know that bond auction I was telling you about?

Yes...

I won! At a really low price! We’re rich!

Despite his obvious temerity, Amanda looked considerably less enthusiastic.

Oh, Charlie,