A Family Situation

By R. W. Nichols

Traveling to California with his girlfriend who suffers with D.I.D. (split personality, with one side homicidal) and his short-but-mean mother and her exasperating friends, P.I. Jimmy Warren is expecting to expedite an inheritance from a recently deceased uncle. This already annoying trip takes another bad turn when he's called upon to defend his mother from charges of attempted murder on his estranged father. After witnessing a homicide and being shot at by a sniper, Jimmy Warren finds his home in Cincinnati starting to look less like a grind and more like the vacation he was hoping for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. W. Nichols
• Release date: Mar 5, 2020

Book preview

Chapter 1

After a bright flash, thunder booms outside the window. I don’t care that rain is slamming against the office windows and running in torrents down the glass, but because this is such an old building, I feel I should worry about the windows leaking and adding another stain to the already dingy carpet. It’s the last thing on my mind. My only thought is that if it’s still raining in an hour, I’ll order in and hunker down here on my new tweed sofa for the night. Because I live alone, I have no responsibilities back at the apartment. There’s nothing that will pee on the carpet, or whine to irritate the neighbors, nothing to snag nail holes in the drapes, shred my sofa, or float belly up if I forget to feed it. Sometimes, there is a benefit to being divorced, foot-loose, and fancy-free. Of course, downtown Cincinnati isn’t high on most lists of places to get a night of shut-eye, but I remind myself that I have my gun and Abby’s (the one I took from my rather high-strung office manager) locked in my desk drawer. So, with one available for each hand, I feel relatively safe.

A knock, unexpected for this late in the day, startles me out of my reverie. And then there’s a few more, each loud enough to rattle the new frosted glass in the left-over-from-a-grander-era panel door. This is odd enough to stir up my curiosity, in addition to whipping up a goodly helping of concern. Why would someone repeatedly rap on the door? Is it an out-of-work drummer practicing his craft? Or is there a fire in the building and I’m being brought up to speed? Now definitely leery, I get to my feet and walk over to see who this is, preferring not to just yell out a ‘come in’ since there’s always the possibility it’s an unwanted visitor. Like someone from one of Cincinnati’s street gangs, a junkie looking for something to hock, or, maybe, a flesh-eating zombie with an inclination for rap. Or even worse, and here I’m really scared, it’s the Thug Brothers (my hoodlum ex-brothers-in-law). I really hope it’s not those two. I can feel my peaceful night do a belly up, just like my nonexistent goldfish.

As I cautiously pull open the door, I’m shocked when a huge head careens down and nearly collides with mine. The man is bent at the waist, positioning his face too near my own to be comfortable. My first impression is that this man must be seven feet tall. I’m astounded, understanding that if he hadn’t leaned over, his head would be up there, hidden in the clouds, lost somewhere above the frame of the door. He’s so thin his clothes hang as if he’s a coat tree, and there are more yards of material in the raincoat he’s wearing than is needed. It can wrap around him twice and still leave enough for a shroud. I note that the ankle-length affair is one of those fancy ones with a surplus of large buttons and that unnecessary flap of material on the upper chest and back that is more appropriate on Sherlock Holmes. I’ve never been a fan of this fashion, and on this man, it’s a cumbersome waste of fabric. It doesn’t help that the coat is shiny and rubberized and covered with raindrops, which makes me afraid he’s going to shake like a dog. That’s a lot of raindrops and I’ve always had a fear of drowning.

Oddly, on the man’s head is a large top hat that adds another foot to his height. This does nothing to flatter a face as long and narrow as a half-starved horse. To my dismay, the hand he extends me completely swallows my own, and I’m pretty sure I can hear the beginning strains from the sit-com ‘The Adams’ Family’. Lurch’s grip is good, but his hand is cold; and I’m relieved when he lets go. I’m not hurt too badly.

Hey, you! a voice says from the vicinity of my hip.

Startled all over again, I glance down and am flabbergasted over what waits impatiently there. A little person dressed in pink ruffles and ribbons, with her bleach-blonde hair done up in ringlet curls that coil as far south as her waist, stands there, carrying a parasol made of white lace propped on her child size shoulder. This ersatz umbrella had to have been worthless in the downpour outside. She’s staring up at me indignantly, waiting for a response, so I better open my tater hole and spit out a stunning response. Another thing I’m famous for.

Uh, sorry. I missed seeing you there, I say, sounding even more lame than normal, offering the hand the huge man has released relatively unharmed, with only two knuckles beginning to swell. Please come inside. I can make a pot of coffee to take the chill off.

She sniffs, not mollified, but is gracious enough to enter. I hope I haven’t offended her right off the bat, but the sight of these two together has really rattled me. Is there a carnival in town? This thought may not be politically correct, but, sorry to say, it’s what flashed into my head.

Mr. Warren? the man asks.

Yup, in the flesh, I say, trying for down-home friendly, since I’m so far from suave and sophisticated.

We, Naomi and I, hoped that we would catch you in, he begins apologetically. If you’re on your way out, we can come back tomorrow. His voice is deep and vibrates around in his chest, like a bird looking for a way out, further reminding me of Lurch. I try to quash a nervous grin that’s determined to sprout on my face.

No, no. I’m here, and I wouldn’t throw anyone back out into that storm, I say as another loud rumble of thunder sounds. In fact, if you want, we can order a pizza and sit around telling ghost stories. In my current mood, the storm outside, and the odd appearance of these two, the reckless party animal in me appears to be coming out. I don’t worry that I’m risking life or limb. After all, whoever heard of a pair of muggers this easy to describe to authorities? Unless they plan on killing off the witnesses? This wayward thought is firmly pushed from my mind as I consider the length of time it might take scrambling around in the rain trying to dispose of a body. Lurch could catch a deadly chill and Little Miss Muffet would probably drown in the first puddle she came to. I think I’m safe. I smile again and the grin feels a little more natural.

We may just do that, huh, honeybunch? the tall man says, asking permission of the little woman. I hope he’s talking about the pizza and hasn’t read my mind about disposing of witnesses. I hold my breath.

You know I hate pizza, she says to him, her arms folded on her tiny chest, her lip out in an amusing pout.

We can order some cheese bread for you, he says, hope growing in his eyes. I release the breath I was holding, as sympathy for Mr. Lurch floods over me. Somehow, I get the feeling he doesn’t get pizza often. Poor man. His little woman is one tough cookie. All that lace and ribbon must be a cover.

Well, okay. But remember what the doctor said about your cholesterol. You can only have one piece.

The obscenely tall man smiles an unbelievably wide smile, and I believe I have an inkling as to why he is so thin. A man his size could reasonably be expected to eat a whole pizza himself. One piece is barely enough calories for one of his size sixteen feet, let alone the bony leg attached.

After finding out what he wants for toppings, which I learn is most anything; I pick up the phone and order a large meat pizza and a side order of cheese bread. But can’t say I’m broken-hearted over the man’s situation. If he can only eat one piece, this will leave more for me. My mama didn’t raise no fool. She raised a chunky feller, one who isn’t going to thin up soon.

Oscar, the little woman says, please tell Mr. Warren the reason we’re here.

Of course, my dear, he says in a gallant, old-fashioned way. We need your help, Mr. Warren. Your ad says you are a private investigator?

Yes, licensed by the state of Ohio. How can I help you? I say, hoping to get business out of the way so we’ll be able to eat the pizza when it arrives. I like my food hot. Since I’m currently short on clients, their arrival on an otherwise dismal night is opportune.

We’re here from the Miller Brothers’ circus. (I knew it!) I’m the ringmaster and owner, while Naomi is the leader of the clown troupe. She also manages the goats and horses needed in the act, payroll, and hiring and firing.

I nod, better understanding the couple’s appearance and the controlling manner of the woman. She is the boss. He might have the title, but we all know who controls the shots on their side of the big tent. I understand. I’ve been married before.

My visitors now turn toward each other, faces reflecting pain. I watch Oscar pick up Naomi’s little hand and lose it in his, while she looks up at him, her expression bleak as the weather outside.

I’m not sure what it is you want me to do? I say, after a pause that seems to go on forever.

Naomi takes up the tale, shifting in her chair to sit up straighter. Our son, Johnny, was born eighteen years ago while we wintered in Florida. The little woman’s feet point straight out from the chair’s brown tweed upholstery with no bending at the knees. Her knees land a good six inches behind the seat front. Fully upright, I bet Naomi barely pushes three feet tall.

One tear slips out of an overly made up eye and slides down her face. I watch as she pushes it angrily away. Naomi has no intention of letting her emotions rule; as I suspected, she’s one tough little lady. I wonder what tragedy it is they’re going to tell me, and fervently hope I can help.

He was raised on the road as part of the whole circus family. Everyone loves him. He was home-schooled and a good student, and had a special fondness for numbers. Here she stops and wipes another tear away. Being proud of her son is unleashing the faucet, and I don’t want to see that happen.

Apparently, Oscar doesn’t either. The man jumps in, Our boy is missing.

"Not, missing!" she cries, frustrated with her husband, or simply the stress of the situation.

No, not missing, Oscar hastily corrects. I suspect he’s backpedaled many times before; he’s so quick at it. His legs are so long, he undoubtedly owns one of those high wheeled bikes. He’s run away.

I stare at the two as what they’ve said slides through my head. This is such a blatantly upside-down cliché that I need to cover my mouth to stifle the laugh that’s threatening to escape. This should not be funny. But, unfortunately, it is. What teenage boy runs away from the circus?

And another thing, why am I the one who gets these types of cases? Whatever happened to cheating spouses or even a simple larceny? The normal kind of case that most private investigators get? I know my job. I can find out who’s running with whom and I can track down missing money as well as the best of them. Why do I get such colorful cases? Do I have writing on my forehead that says, Call Jimmy–odd problems his specialty? I feel like it sometimes.

Maybe this is a job for the precinct downtown? I ask, thinking how amusing this would be, especially if it lands on the Chief’s desk. He seems to have a penchant for headlining the news lately. This would make a great front-page article or human-interest spot on the local channel. ‘Chief claims boy runs away from circus. More at five.’

We’ve already been there, Lurch says. They say there’s nothing they can do; Johnny’s over eighteen. Unless there’s proof that he’s somehow in danger, they can’t help us.

Naomi brings her pudgy little hands to her mouth at the possibility of her son in danger. She’s scared, and I feel like a heel after the thoughts that have been bouncing around in my head. No matter her height, she’s a scared woman, and a terrified mother. I press my lips together firmly curtailing any wayward giggle trying to escape. This is not the time to be crass.

All we want to know is where he is and if he’s happy, Oscar pleads. Here’s the note he left us. He thrusts into my hands the bottom half of a piece of lined paper torn from a cheap yellow tablet.

This is his handwriting? I ask.

They nod agreement and I quickly scan the few short words their son has left them, supposedly written before he disappeared out into the harsh, cold world.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I’m going away for a while. I’m eighteen and it’s time to begin my life. I’ll let you know when I’m settled, sometime after the first of the year at the latest. I love you both more than I can say. You gave me the best childhood any boy could ever want, but now it’s time I grow up and make it on my own.

Dad, tell Mom not to worry. I’ll be fine.

Love, Jonathon

I understand why the police can do nothing. I, or someone in my profession, am the couple’s only hope. I glance up at the desperate expressions on the faces of the ringmaster and his little person wife–the grieving parents of a missing eighteen-year-old boy–and realize I have no choice. I must do everything I can. And who knows? This case may be amusing, it could be exciting, and it will, most likely, take me somewhere I’ve never been. I’m proud to say I’m up for anything, even wading knee deep in elephant shit, with cotton candy stuck in my hair.

So, I pull open the drawer and grab a simple contract from the short pile there and push it and a pen across the desk to Lurch and Miss Muffet.

Let’s get this show on the road. I can almost taste a funnel cake now.

Chapter 2

Izzy (at least I hope it’s Izzy) walks into the office. I can see I’ve impressed her. In the time that she’s worked here I’ve only beaten her in two or three times. Of course, she’ll soon figure out that I didn’t. I never left. The couch wasn’t too bad last night; I only have a slight kink in my neck. This is because it’s only a couple of months old, and isn’t beaten up yet, like my sofa at home, where I’ve been known to sprawl in my underwear watching the game. That one is well broke in and darn comfortable.

You’re here bright and early, she says, raising her eyebrows, giving me full view of those lovely green eyes. She’s a striking beauty of twenty-seven and I can’t deny the attraction I feel. Of course, I’m forty-three and carrying a few extra pounds. Maybe more than a few. But the attraction’s still there no matter the jellyroll I carry at my waist.

The ‘attraction’ isn’t there for her twin sister Abby. That broad is psychotic. Of course, what she’s gone through in her life would turn anyone into a raging maniac. But I won’t go into that now. Suffice to say that it doesn’t make the other ‘complication’ with the girls any easier. They have D. I. D.–Dissociative Identity Disorder. In other words, a split personality. Izzy and Abby share the same body, which complicates my nonexistent love life ten-fold. But I enjoy a good challenge.

I stayed here last night, I admit to her questioning look. And I picked up a new case. Oscar and Naomi Kautsch hired me to find their runaway son Jonathon. Here’s the contract, all signed and legal, and here’s their deposit. I hand her the forms and the couple’s check for a thousand dollars. The account this will be deposited into is in pretty good shape with the four cases I solved in the last two weeks. But I don’t do this business out of the goodness of my heart. I never turn down an advance; in fact, I require one. A guy must eat. And a pretty office manager should have her hair and nails done, and new shoes every now and then. Which leads me to wonder if the girls share their clothes or have separate closets? There are all kinds of questions possible with these two.

I’m impressed, Izzy says, looking over the form. I don’t know whether to be proud or humiliated. She designed the form so even a buffoon like me should be able to fill it out. Unless you forget a line or two.

You’ve only forgotten one line, she says, as my ego deflates. I’ll call and get that for you. We need the boy’s Social Security number. I’m sure it will make your job easier. She smiles at me, as my face colors. She doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she’s just used to my blunders. So much so that only making one is better than she expected.

Thanks, I say, holding my cup up to my face and pretending to be focused on getting more caffeine into my body. Like I need it. I’ve been drinking my witches’ brew for the last hour, and I’m glad Izzy will make the next pot. I’ve never had the knack, where she does it so effortlessly. There’s just no end to the young woman’s talents.

The office door bursts open and I’m dismayed when a short, hefty woman struts in. My mother. Just what the day doesn’t need. I’m not sure which day needs it, but certainly not this one. And it started out so well.

Jimmy, she says. Got any more coffee? She manages to parade her way into the tiny efficiency kitchen the suite provides and grabs one of my new mugs. The shiny black ones that I keep especially for clients. She knows better, but then, she’s my mother. She’s used to ruling the roost, and besides, she’s too short to reach up into the cabinet to get one of the older cups. Even though there’s one for her there that says Mother in flowery script running up the side. I know I should keep her cup on the counter, in a place of honor. With candles, all around. Making a regular shrine out of it. But it wouldn’t matter. She’ll use the cup that will cause me the most irritation, regardless.

Mom takes her coffee to one of the chairs I have positioned in front of the couch and I nervously watch as she sets it down on the coffee table to better be able to glare at Izzy. There’s no love lost between the two. To be accurate, there’s no love lost between her and Abby. As a matter of fact, I still have Abby’s gun locked in my desk drawer, the one she threatened to shoot a client, and my mother, with. Izzy smiles and nods at Mom (just as if she doesn’t see her hateful expression) and then goes back to the paperwork on her desk, leaving Mom with no one to focus her displeasure on. So, she turns it on me. Of course. I wonder if Izzy even knows about Abby and Mom’s confrontation; the one that gave me a split lip and some painful scratches when I foolishly stepped between the two. Strangely, I don’t believe it. It surprises me that the girls, even though they’re never physically apart, don’t talk much with each other about their day. Weird.

Okay, Jimmy, Mom begins, with the scowl still on her face. Then again, she’s drinking coffee from the pot I made. I’d scowl too, if I had good taste. After a dramatic pause to highlight the irritation I cause her daily, she continues, What are you going to do about it?

Do about what, Mom? I sigh, resigned to being guilty and feeling miserable about it. Parents can be so tiring. Mom loves a crisis and she insists on stirring the pot, no matter how Lilliputian it is. I’ve learned over the years not to fight this. It’s her way or no way. I know now that a pot must be stirred.

Well, your inheritance, of course.

She has my attention now.

I’m sure that a relative out there is screwing with you, she continues. You’re never going to get your money in this lifetime.

Good old Mom. The relative she’s speaking of is my father. Of course, she would never admit it. She’s told everyone that he’s dead, instead of him running off with a younger woman–his secretary no less. This must be why clichés are comfortable for me. I’ve often wondered if it was the fact that the other woman was twenty years younger, or simply because my father managed to get away from her that irritated her worse. My bet is on the latter. My mother is a very controlling woman.

Your lawyer assures me it won’t be long now. I manage to say this with a straight face, even though I believe different. It feels like I’ve been getting the run-around for several weeks. This was supposed to be an easy transaction. Just sign a few papers, prove my identity, and abracadabra, the money magically shows up in my account. But nothing’s ever easy for me. I’m not complaining, just stating the facts. As a matter of fact, I’m in better shape than usual. I don’t currently have a broken nose or a black eye, and my wallet isn’t gasping out a death rattle.

Yeah, well, that’s not what he’s telling me, Mom says, sniffing. She should know. She’s a lot closer to the man than I am. Something else she denies, and something I don’t really want to know about. As I said, she