The Stranger. Kathleen O'Brien
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had been almost three years since Tyler had seen him, but this had to be Dilday Merle.
He cleared his throat. “Good afternoon, Professor.”
Bennie’s store was small enough that Tyler didn’t even have to raise his voice. Which meant, of course, that Merle must have been able to hear every word Tyler had said since he walked into the newsstand. Tyler wondered why the old man had kept silent so long. The last time they’d met, when Merle had been trying to talk Tyler out of printing his story on the Heyday Eight, he hadn’t exactly been shy.
Merle turned around with a smile, and Tyler saw that the professor was holding the current copy of the New Yorker.
“Hello, Tyler. I’ve just been reading your latest article.” Merle glanced down. “Still chasing the bad guys, I see. Your style hasn’t changed much.”
A small chuckle came from Bennie’s side of the counter. “Perhaps not,” Tyler said neutrally, watching as Merle walked toward him. “But then, the bad guys don’t change much, either.”
Merle gazed at him through his thick glasses, which made his eyes seem large and owlish, as if they didn’t miss much. “And you’re still not losing sleep over it,” he said. He glanced at Bennie. “Or so I hear.”
Bennie laughed outright at that. “If you’re looking for a bleeding heart, man, you better look somewhere else. Mr. Tyler here, he traded his heart in ten years ago. Got himself a bigger brain instead.”
Tyler shot Bennie a hard look. Surely he knew better than to bring up that ancient history. What happened ten years ago was none of Dilday Merle’s business. It wasn’t any of Bennie’s business, either, but unfortunately Tyler had been young at the time, and emotional. He’d talked too much.
But Merle obviously wasn’t interested in Tyler’s past. He stopped, set down the magazine and held out his hand. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “Because I don’t need a heart this time. I need a brain.”
“Oh, yeah?” Tyler shook Merle’s hand, noting with surprise how firm the grip was. “Why is that?”
Merle looked at Bennie, and seemed relieved that the vendor was fully absorbed with another customer.
“Because I’m being blackmailed. And I want you to catch the bastard who’s doing it.”
Twenty minutes later, when they were settled at Tyler’s favorite café, and the waiter had taken their order and departed, Tyler knocked back some scalding black coffee and turned to the man beside him.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s start over. Slowly. From the beginning. Because I’m having a little trouble believing I heard you right.”
“You did.” Dilday Merle had ordered bottled water, and he was carefully decanting it into the empty glass the waiter had provided. “I’m being blackmailed.”
This time, Tyler was better able to control his shock. But still…it was insane. Seventy-something-year-old Dilday Merle, with his old-fashioned etiquette and his bow ties, and his owl eyes?
This stuffy, ivory-tower academic was being blackmailed?
Though it was the lunch hour, and dozens of people thronged the quaint little café, the anonymity of the crowd provided its own privacy.
“What the hell could anyone blackmail you about?”
“Hell is the perfect word for it.” Merle’s voice carried some heat. He might be close to eighty, but there wasn’t anything frail about him. “Some bastard has been calling me up, ordering me to pay him a thousand dollars every two weeks or else he’ll tell the board of regents that I was mixed up with the Heyday Eight.”
Tyler, who had just lifted his coffee cup, froze in place. He felt the steam moisten his lips, but he was too distracted to drink.
Dilday Merle and the Heyday Eight?
He didn’t want to fall into stale clichés about old people, but come on. His mind tried to picture Greta Swinburne or Pammy Russe straddling this elegant, elderly man, snapping their little black whips across his bony backside.
No way.
“For God’s sake, son, get that look off your face.” Merle tightened his mouth. His high forehead wrinkled in an intense scowl. “It isn’t true.”
As if the projector of his life had started rolling again, Tyler blinked back to reality. He sipped at his coffee, trying to look unfazed.
“Of course it’s not true,” he said. “Greta gave me the complete list of their customers when I broke the story. You definitely weren’t on that list. I would have noticed.”
“And plastered my name all over your story, no doubt.”
Tyler shrugged. He was used to this attitude. He hadn’t made those stupid college girls buy rhinestone-studded sex-whips, and he hadn’t made those pathetic men buy their services. He’d just let the world—including the girls’ parents, the men’s wives, and the local police—know what was going on.
You’d think they might even be grateful that he’d brought an end to something so fundamentally unhealthy for all concerned. But about ninety percent of the people in Heyday had automatically hated Tyler Balfour’s guts.
Oh, well, it was an occupational hazard for journalists. Everyone liked to shoot the messenger.
Still, he wondered what the huffy Heydayers had thought when they’d learned who journalist Tyler Balfour really was. When they learned that he was a McClintock by birth and had inherited a third of their precious little town.
But that was another story.
Merle was still frowning. “Wouldn’t you?”
“What? Publish your name?” Tyler returned Merle’s gaze without flinching. “You are a high-profile community leader. You worked with those girls at the college, in a position of trust. At least part of your salary comes from public funds. So yeah, I probably would have put your name front and center.”
Merle snorted softly. He managed to make even that sound elegant. “Fair enough. Well, anyhow, this accusation is a bunch of baloney. But the blackmailer obviously knows that, in my position, I can’t afford to have charges like that leveled at me. The school can’t afford it, not after the scandals it’s already been through.”
Tyler nodded. “The guy sounds pretty clever. He’s made the payment just small enough that it’ll hurt less to pay it than to fight it. That’s what usually trips blackmailers up. They get greedy and they ask for too much. Their victim is left with no choice but to call in the police.”
Merle offered him a one-sided smile. “Two thousand dollars a month hurts plenty,” he said. “Not all of us just inherited a small town, you know. In fact, I have to tell you it still seems positively feudal that anyone can inherit a town.”
Tyler chuckled, then leaned back as the waiter arrived with their meals. It did sound ridiculous, which was why he didn’t intend to touch this inheritance with a ten-foot pole. He had left a standing order to sell everything, as soon as there was a legitimate buyer. So far he hadn’t been able to unload any of it. Property in Heyday, Virginia, wasn’t exactly in high demand.
Neither of them spoke until the waiter had gone through the requisite frills and flourishes, asking them three times if they needed anything further.
Finally they were alone. Merle looked at his dark green and yellow salad as if he’d never seen anything like it before. Then he put his fork down and gave Tyler another of those appraising stares. Tyler had to smile. He could just imagine how effective that glare had been in the classroom.
“I’ve always wanted to ask you something,” Merle said. “When you came to Heyday and uncovered the prostitution ring, no one had any idea you had a connection to the town.”
While Tyler waited for Merle to continue, he chewed a mouthful of sprouts and spinach.