When in Bruges (Humorous Romantic Mystery) (4 page)

F
ive minutes later
, the offices of Van Damme Security (& Co) saw the addition of a tubby little man, sporting an impressive mustache and beetling brow, which gave him a perpetual scowl.

“Son. Kirt.”

“Dad.”

“Mr. Van Damme.”

Introductory pleasantries thus suspended with, Jacques Van Damme came straight to the point, as was his custom. “Son, I need you to retrieve some potentially damaging pictures for me. And I’ll pay you top euro if you can give this your immediate attention. If possible, drop all your other cases.”

“Pictures, dad?” said Chris a little wearily. “Again?”

It wasn’t the first time Van Damme Sr. had allowed himself to be photographed in a compromising position, and as a public figure this was never a good idea. Somehow, Chris’s dad had always managed to get away with it, but this time, apparently, something more serious was going on.

For even though Jacques Van Damme was a widower, and people have a tendency to forgive a man who just suffered a great loss just about anything, there is a limit to the number of questionable women a politician can become involved with before people will turn their back—and voting ballots—on him.

“Who is she?”

Jacques glared at Kirt for a brief moment, rightly or wrongly considering Chris’s longtime friend an intruder into this private conversation between father and son.

Kirt, one of those men who don’t take a hint, stared back placidly without moving an inch, and finally Jacques relented and sank onto the IKEA sleeping couch that doubled as office furniture.

“Jeanie Geyser,” Jacques said. “She’s an actress.”

“Not
the
Jeanie Geyser,” said Kirt with a guffaw.

Once again, he received a penetrating scowl from Jacques, and once again, didn’t budge.

“Who?” said Chris, who hadn’t really been paying attention to what the entertainment industry had to offer these days.

“She’s the lead on
Life in the Fast Lane
, some trashy reality show,” explained Kirt. “Pretty racy stuff.”

“It’s not trashy at all,” said Jacques, stung to the quick. “Not the least bit trashy,” he repeated. “And Miss Geyser is the highlight of the whole thing. A lovely creature. Quite lovely.”

“So you got involved with this woman and now she’s blackmailing you, is that it?” said Chris. He just wished his mother were still alive. With her around, this would never have happened.

A pained expression came into Jacques’s eyes. “You’re getting it all wrong, son. Jeanie would never stoop to such lows. She’s a kindhearted, sweet little soul. No, it’s that rat Gnat again. How he got a hold of the snapshots I don’t know, but I’ve seen one and it’s the real deal.” He winced. “Nudity and all.”

“How much?”

Jacques’s eyes flitted to Kirt, then he said in a low voice, “A lot.”

Chris grimaced at the picture this confession evoked. “I didn’t mean how much flesh, dad. I meant how much money does this Gnat guy want.”

“A hundred grand. For starters.”

Chris and Kirt whistled simultaneously, and the sound seemed to grate on Jacques’s sensitive soul. “I know, I know! Now if you could please stop imitating a cuckoo and listen for a moment.” He leaned forward, his beetling brow working furiously. “I want you to destroy those pictures for me. I really can’t afford a scandal right now, with the elections coming up. I’m sure those pictures will find their way to publication, even if I pay.”

“You think so? Why?”

“Gnat works for my opponent.”

“Mayor Peeters?”

“Sure. Everybody knows he’s got the Chronicle in his pocket.
He’s
the one behind this attempt to destroy my reputation. This is his way of beating me.” He shook his fist militantly. “But I won’t let him! By golly, if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to win this election and establish a Van Damme on the Bruges throne once again if it kills me! Just like in the good old days!”

Chris and Kirt exchanged a knowing glance. The ‘good old days’ were not such a distant memory that they were beyond the two young men’s recollection. Probably all of Bruges distinctly remembered the days Jacques Van Damme had ruled with iron fist—at least when that fist hadn’t been clasped firmly around a jug of beer or a bottle of Glenfiddich.

Ever since the day he’d fallen from City Hall’s second floor balcony onto the hardwood floor below, and been fortunate enough that Wallace Pruym, the city secretary, was there to break the fall, things had gone from bad to worse with Bruges’s former First Citizen. Most notably the fact that he’d been two sheets to the wind on the night of his dramatic fall from grace, and that poor Mr. Pruym had been out of circulation for two whole months, had prompted him to be ousted from office and replaced by his first Alderman until the next election, which had seen a landslide victory for challenger Piet Peeters.

After Chris’s mother had staged an intervention, though, and managed to heave Jacques back onto the wagon, he’d had a remarkable change of heart concerning his former favorite pastime and was now a rabid anti-alcoholic and proud member of the local AA, as was, oddly enough, Piet Peeters.

Jacques directed a pleading look at his eldest. “Chris, please, help me retrieve those pictures? If they get out it’ll be the end of me. You of all people should know how hard I’ve worked for this nomination. If I screw up this time, there won’t be another comeback. I’ll have ruined my final chance to make good on my promise to your mother that I’d change my life around.”

“You have an odd way of showing it, dad,” grumbled Chris.

“Huh?”

“I don’t think fooling around with trashy women was mom’s idea of getting your life back on track.”

“She’s not trashy,” began Jacques, then thought better of it, and was decent enough to look remorseful for a change. Wringing his hands, he said, “Please, son. Do me this one favor. For your mother’s sake? She would have wanted to see me back in City Hall, don’t you think?”

Well, at least that much was true. Chris’s mother had worked hard to help put her husband in City Hall and would have loved to see him beat the alcohol demon and rise to his former glory once again.

Chris looked over to his partner, and when the latter gave him the nod, he said, “All right. We’ll take the job. Now tell me, where can we find this Gnat character and where, do you think, does he keep his pictures?”

S
pringtime was
about to give way to summertime, but the night was still chilly when Kate and Lauren stepped out. Even though her father had insisted she leave well enough alone, and not get involved in the sordid business of the blackmail affair he’d gotten entangled in, the two women had decided to have a stab at getting those pictures back for him.

It was the least they could do for the dear old man, they felt. And, Kate had reasoned, she hadn’t traveled four thousand miles to be reunited with her father only to see his career go down in flames.

Even though neither she nor Lauren were professional burglars, they
were
both cops, and in that capacity not unfamiliar with the art of breaking and entering into other people’s premises. Especially Lauren, who’d once followed a locksmith course and had managed to find all the tools they needed at a local locksmith’s shop that afternoon.

Queenie had been so kind as to lend them a pair of bicycles, according to her the ideal vehicle for getting around Bruges, and the two women now pedaled merrily along a cobblestone street lining an old canal, street lamps casting their diffuse light over the fairytale town.

As they crossed a picturesque bridge, Kate watched a young couple take a stroll around the block, pushing a pram. She remembered the house she and Franklin shared, back in Ohio. Franklin had made his home in a suburb of Columbus, and his house had now also become her new home.

This time next month, she’d be Mrs. Franklin Drub, and perhaps in a year or so, if all went well, the first little Drub would be born.

For some reason, the prospect suddenly didn’t hold all that much appeal to her. Imagining herself spending the rest of her life in that neighborhood, raising the Drub offspring, all the while making sure her hubby’s pants were pressed, his dinner ready at six and the house cozy and clean… She shook her head to rid herself from the impending sense of dread the picture instilled in her.

“Mrs. Franklin Drub,” she said with some vehemence.

“Huh?” said Lauren, looking up.

“Mrs. Franklin Drub. Kate Drub. Hi, Mrs. Drub. How are you this AM, Mrs. Drub?” she mumbled. Why, oh why, did Franklin have to have such a funny surname? Then, with a petulant shake of the head, she razed these petty thoughts from her mind.

“Kate? Are you all right, honey? You’re talking to yourself.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Kate quickly. She hadn’t realized she was thinking out loud. “I was just… practicing.”

“Practicing the role of Mrs. Franklin Drub,” said Lauren with a grin.

“That’s right,” said Kate a little too defensively.

“Hey, did I tell you I sent a message to Kirt?”

“You did? That’s… wonderful,” said Kate.

“Yeah, I just figured, why not? I mean, he seems like a decent sort of guy, and since we’re supposed to be here on holiday, why not live a little, you know?”

“Of course. No, you’re absolutely right. You should really go for it. He does look like a great guy.”

And Chris’s colleague. Not that it mattered.

“Hey, and since he’s a local, perhaps he can show us some of the sights that are off the beaten track, right?”

“Good thinking,” said Kate. “Always a good idea to mingle with the locals.”

Not
all
the locals, of course. Especially the ones with names like Chris…

“I’m meeting him tomorrow for drinks. I hope that’s all right with you?”

“Sure, sure,” said Kate. “Absolutely. I’ll probably have lunch with my dad tomorrow anyway so…”

“Great. Now where is this Gnat place?”

Stepping off the bike for a moment, Kate brought out the map of Bruges she’d picked up at the
Bouquets & Nosegays
and studied it.

“Just a little further,” she said. “We’re almost there. You have the stuff, right?”

Lauren tapped her backpack. “Everything your friendly neighborhood burglar needs is right here, honey.”

“Are you sure you know how to pick the lock?”

“Don’t worry about that. Are
you
sure you can break into his safe?”

Kate grimaced. “No way of knowing until I see the thing. If it’s one of those older models, it shouldn’t be a problem. If it’s a new one…”

She hadn’t really given the matter a lot of thought. Back home, she had all the equipment she needed to bust a safe, but here in Belgium? Judging from what her father had told them, this Gnat guy was an elderly man who ran a small local paper, so she just hoped he used an elderly safe.

C
hris and Kirt
had been sitting in Chris’s navy blue Toyota Corolla for the better part of the last hour, staring out across the street at Gazet Street No. 8. At least, Chris was staring at the house while Kirt read a copy of Top Gear Magazine.

Same old, same old, Chris thought. He and Kirt had spent so many hours on stakeouts together, it felt like old times to sit hunched up in a car once again. Only this time, they were making billable hours, and the car wasn’t police issue but his own beat-up jalopy.

“You think he’s still in there?” he said, for the umpteenth time training his field glasses on the row house that had become the target of Van Damme Security’s first ever big case.

Kirt shrugged as he leafed through his magazine. “Probably better if he is. He can show us where the pictures are. Save us a lot of trouble.”

“I’d prefer not to be so open about it. Better go in and out undetected. We don’t want to run into our old colleagues.”

Kirt slowly raised his eyes to take in his partner. “That
would
be embarrassing. Though we could try and explain it to them. I’m sure they’ll understand if we tell them we’re working for their future boss.”

“Somehow I doubt it. You remember that one time when we were searching a house without a warrant and the guy came home unexpected and he turned out to be the commissioner?”

Kirt chortled at the recollection. “That was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Not for me,” said Chris, whose father had still been mayor at the time.

His voice trailed off, for at this moment he detected movement across the street.

“There he is,” he said.

An older gentleman, perfectly coiffed and dressed in a tailor-made suit of impeccable cut, stepped jauntily into the street, closed the door of No. 8 behind him, and sauntered off in the direction of ’t Zand, a fluffy Pekinese happily cavorting at his side.

“Coast is clear,” grunted Chris as he tracked Alfonso Gnat down the street until he disappeared round the corner.

Kirt lazily threw his magazine on the backseat of the car and stretched his limbs. “Go on, then,” he said. “What are you waiting for?”

“Two cyclists are approaching,” Chris said, checking his rearview mirror. “They’re still far away but perhaps it’s better if I wait until they’ve passed.”

“Why wait?” said Kirt. “Just get a move on, already. I’ll keep my eyes peeled out here.”

“Right,” said Chris dubiously. “But what if it’s the cops?”

“On bicycles? Sure.”

“Or what if this Gnat guy has private security working for him? They could be watching us right now.”

“And what if ET had an evil twin and he came back to hunt down Elliott and all the other kids?”

“Oh, all right,” said Chris. “But you better keep an eye out.”

“Don’t you worry about a thing,” said Kirt, flipping down his seat and luxuriously stretching himself out across it. “The moment I see one of Gnat’s spies bearing down on you, I’ll personally move in and kick his butt.”

After a final glare at his frivolous friend, Chris, with a shake of the head, ventured outside. Quickly checking left and right, he scooted across the street. It didn’t take him long to pick the lock of the ancient house—the old skills still lingered—and after another furtive glance down the street, he disappeared inside.

Kirt, suddenly remembering he hadn’t yet finished that article on the new BMW roadster, retrieved his auto magazine from the backseat, thumbed to page twelve, and was soon so engrossed in the pros and cons of yet another miracle of German engineering, that he didn’t even notice two familiar young women bicycling down the street.

Having had a tiring day, Kirt soon slunk down lower in his seat, and before long, the magazine fell from his grasp, his chin hit his chest and soft snoring sounds filled the car. Kirt, the man to put the Co in Van Damme Security & Co, had just entered the land of nod.