I, the Constable Read online

  “That’s one way to do it,” admitted Quark.

  “What does that mean?” Leeta asked, sounding confused.

  “It means that each of Frin’s wives will inherit only a third of his estate,” Quark answered, his brow wrinkled in thought.

  “You know, I think it might be a good idea to invite them over here,” Rom suggested.

  Ever the perfect hostess, Leeta suddenly perked up. “Ooooh—maybe a little dinner party. With lots of drinks. I could call that new caterer—”

  Rom smiled at her. “Yes, that sounds perfect. A nice friendly evening with our bereaved relatives. We’d drink to Frin. Dear old Frin! And then we’d have a friendly conversation about what the ladies plan to do with the taverns. We’ll talk about how managing them will be so much trouble!” Rom added, turning to Quark, “And then you could offer to take the taverns off their hands, Brother!”

  Quark stared at Rom in horror. “What? Are you crazy? Bring the three of them together? They might hate each other! Or worse, they might actually get along . . . and decide to conspire! Form an empire together! No! I have to keep them apart and deal with them separately!”

  Quark headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Rom asked.

  “To see Frin’s matrimonial partners—separately!”

  “Do you want me to call ahead?”

  “NO!” Quark shouted. “Don’t do anything until I get back!”

  “Will you be back in time for dinner?” Leeta asked. “We’re having hasperat roll-ups with jellied gree-worm.”

  Quark exited. Without a reply.

  Leeta looked at Rom, mildly perturbed. Rom shrugged. “I’d take that as a ‘maybe,’ ” he said.

  “Hmmm,” Odo rumbled when the cacophony of voices around him finally ceased. He glanced at Rom. “So the last thing Quark told you was that he was going to talk to Frin’s wives, to see whether they were interested in giving up—selling, that is—their inheritance.”

  Rom nodded. “But I’ve been in touch with the wives since then. They all said that Quark stopped by, but then he left. They don’t have any idea where he might be now.”

  “They may claim to know nothing of Quark’s whereabouts,” Odo noted. “But denial or not, they’re my only leads. I think I’ll pay each of them a visit.”

  “Start with Chartreux,” Ishka suggested. “The last time I saw her—at Keldar’s desiccation ceremony—she was Frin’s only wife. Old-fashioned and not very bright, but she seemed friendly. I have no idea about the others.”

  Odo turned back to Rom. “Before I go, I’d like to modify my combadge so that I can send and receive local communications here on Ferenginar. It will allow you to contact me if you receive information about Quark’s whereabouts.”

  “I can help with that,” Rom said eagerly. “What do you need?”

  “Just the specs on a Ferengi communicator.”

  “And maybe a diagram?” Rom suggested.

  “It couldn’t hurt.”

  “How about if I include a visual tie-in?”

  “Well, I’m not sure that I’ll need something like that—”

  “I’ll do it anyway,” Rom said with a grin. “It won’t take any longer. It’s an idea I’ve been playing with and this would be a good test.”

  Odo was puzzled. “How would that even work? I’ll be wearing it.”

  Rom uttered the longest sentence Odo had ever heard the Ferengi speak—something about a miniaturized holographic circuit, a short-range force field, a pinpoint camera . . . and many other components that the Changeling had never heard of. He reminded the nagus that he couldn’t configure the device if he didn’t understand it.

  “Don’t worry—you will. It’ll be easy. I’ll show you everything.” And Rom rushed excitedly from the room to gather the information the Changeling would need.

  Odo couldn’t help but notice the immediate change in the nagus’s demeanor now that he was in familiar territory. Engineering was his forte—not politics.

  Ishka studied Odo curiously. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you just gave him your combadge to tinker with?”

  “No, not really,” he replied. “I can do it myself. I just need information so I can visualize the construction, and then synthesize the right elements and manipulate a few molecules. Shouldn’t take long.”

  Ishka appeared unconvinced. “But—”

  “He doesn’t have to take it off to fix it, Moogie,” explained Leeta.

  “He doesn’t?”

  Leeta leaned over and whispered into one of her mother-in-law’s lobes: “He’s a shape-shifter, Moogie.”

  “Oh,” Ishka said. Followed by “Oh! Of course! Silly me!” as comprehension flooded her wrinkled features. “That’s very convenient, Odo! What a shame you can’t teach that skill to others. You could make a considerable profit.”

  Odo tilted his head to one side. “Yes,” he said, straight-faced. “That’s a real pity, isn’t it?”

  Chapter 4

  Wife Number One lived in the Exchequer Suites, a posh, assisted-living complex located in the capital city’s “Latinum Lifestyle” retirement district. After Odo identified himself as an investigator on assignment for Starfleet, the receptionist (for a slip of latinum) pointed out a lift that would take him directly to the penthouse of the main building. The lift, the receptionist informed him, would cost an additional slip. Odo nodded in acceptance, grateful that he’d had the foresight to bring a small supply of native currency for just such requirements.

  When the doors of the lift parted at the top floor, Odo flinched at the sight of the widow Chartreux, decked out in a traditional Ferengi mourning bonnet—and nothing else. Suddenly he remembered Ishka’s description of Chartreux: “old-fashioned.” Meaning she probably doesn’t own a stitch of clothing besides the hat, he thought.

  “Come,” she said with a broad smile, beckoning him from the entrance to the suite. Odo anticipated her stepping back when he got to the doorway, but no—she just stood there, smiling. With a grunt of understanding, he handed her a slip. Still smiling, she cleared her throat meaningfully, and after a brief pause, Odo added an additional slip.

  Chartreux nodded gratefully. “My penthouse is my penthouse,” she said.

  Odo nodded, then added the perfunctory visitor’s reply: “As are its contents.”

  “And the homeowners’ fees are murder,” she said, explaining the additional charge.

  Chartreux led him into the spacious living room and seated herself on a cozy loveseat. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said.

  Odo remained standing in the center of the room. “I’m quite comfortable,” he assured her.

  Chartreux chuckled and patted the adjacent cushion on the loveseat. “Don’t be silly. Sit and stay awhile. I don’t get many visitors.” She leaned forward and gave him a friendly wink. “It doesn’t cost extra.”

  Feeling more than a little uncomfortable, Odo acquiesced and squeezed in next to her. He preferred to look his interview subjects in the eye when he questioned them—not the ear.

  But as he shot a glance over at her, he realized that he couldn’t even see that. He was staring directly into her mourning bonnet’s crisp black ruffles.

  “Nice hat,” he said as a way of easing into the conversation.

  “Thank you! I like to think Frin would have appreciated it. Oh, can I get you some tea? I still have some snacks that were prepared for the desiccation ceremony. Very tasty! And prechewed, of course.”

  “No, thank you,” he said. “I’m here to investigate the disappearance of your late husband’s nephew Quark.”

  “What? Quark is missing?” Chartreux jerked around to face him, and Odo caught a glimpse of her rheumy lavender eyes. “How terrible,” she said. “He was here just the other day to pay his respects.”

  “Yes, that’s what I was led to un
derstand,” Odo said. “Could you tell me about the visit?”

  Her broad expanse of brow furrowed, causing the bonnet to wiggle just a bit. “Well, he was very polite. He told me how much he’d always admired my husband, and that he wished he could have spent more time with him. While my husband was alive, I mean.”

  Odo nodded patiently. “And?” he prodded after she fell silent.

  “I’m trying to remember the important parts,” she said. “I don’t want to bore you. You’re sure you won’t have tea?”

  “No, thank you,” he said again. “Don’t worry about boring me. Don’t try to filter your memories. Just . . . let them flow,” he instructed, gesturing with his fingers in a way that he hoped suggested “flowing.”

  Chartreux stared at his fingers for a moment. Then, ever so slowly at first, she let her memories spill forth. Odo closed his eyes as he listened, allowing himself to flow with them.

  Quark was quite effusive about how his father, Keldar, had always looked up to his more successful brother, Frin. The bartender wandered around Chartreux’s living room as he talked, complimenting her taste in decorating, and studying pieces of furniture. Suddenly he paused in front of a divan.

  “You know, we had a sofa exactly like this one when I was growing up,” he said, stroking the fabric idly.

  Chartreux glanced over at the divan and wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Actually, I believe that particular piece came from Keldar’s estate,” she said. “I didn’t want it, but Frin insisted. I had to have it irradiated twice.”

  Quark frowned in annoyance. He seemed on the verge of saying something uncharitable, but he apparently thought better of it, and moved on to another subject as he sat down to pour himself a cup of sweet larva tea.

  “I can’t believe how well Frin managed all of those taverns,” he said. “I mean, it’s no easy job watching over the two that I have.” Quark turned and looked at her. “Auntie, I wonder . . . have you had a chance to think about what you’ll do with all those taverns?”

  “Oh, I don’t know anything about managing them,” she admitted with a self-deprecating laugh. “Frinzy always said it was best to keep my pretty nose out of his business. Thank goodness I only need to worry about ten of them.” She sipped at her own cup.

  “Ten?” Quark repeated, pretending to be surprised.

  “The others belong to the others.”

  “Others?”

  “The other partners, of course. Frin’s other wives.”

  “You, uh, you know that he had other wives?” Quark asked carefully.

  “Yes, I do. And I have to admit, I didn’t like it at first. But after Frin explained the nature of the limited partnerships to me, I decided it made sense. It was just business.” She sighed as she remembered her husband. “I’m sure that he loved me best.”

  “Of course he did,” agreed Quark. The conversation paused as the two slurped from their respective cups. Then Quark dropped his cup to its saucer with a loud clink. “Listen, Auntie—I’ve been thinking. Even ten taverns must seem like so much work to you! And it’s so unfair during what rightfully should be your . . . your . . . ‘Me Time’!”

  “My what?” Chartreux asked.

  “Your ‘Me Time’! Time to bask in your . . . uh . . . sequestration.”

  “My what?” she asked.

  “Your retirement, Auntie. Your golden time. You shouldn’t have to worry about business at this point in life, especially when you never did before. Frinzy was right. Time to give your pretty little nose a rest!” When she didn’t respond, Quark rushed forward with his pitch. “I, uh, I’d be willing to take those taverns off your nose . . . your hands, I mean. For a fair market price.” He smiled at her hopefully. “You’d never have to worry about them again.”

  Chartreux didn’t say anything for a moment and Quark was concerned that he might have said too much too soon. But her smile returned, and she took his hand in hers. “Well, Nephew, as I said, I really don’t know anything about that.” She got up and led him to the door of the suite, which slid open at her approach. “That’s why I leave it all in Hilt’s hands.”

  “Hilt?” echoed Quark. “Is that, uh, a new boyfriend?”

  “My financial manager,” she said, giving Quark a gentle shove and closing the door in his face.

  “Financial manager?” Odo echoed. “My understanding was that every Ferengi is raised to be his own financial manager.”

  “That was only true for the men,” she said. “But now that wives can inherit . . . well, I’m not ashamed to admit that some of us just don’t have the wherewithal to wield wealth. And truthfully, I didn’t know what I was going to do. That’s why I was so happy when Hilt contacted me. He’s been a gift from the Blessed Exchequer!” A blush the color of ripe kumquats rose on her flabby cheeks. “And he is so good-looking!” she gushed.

  “Indeed,” commented Odo. “I imagine that Quark was surprised that you were allowing this . . . Hilt . . . to handle your financial transactions.”

  Chartreux shrugged. “I don’t really know how he felt about it. I didn’t see Quark after that.”

  Rejecting a third offer of tea, Odo took his leave from the building and charted a path to the home of Yrena—a.k.a. Wife Number Two. He noted that it wasn’t far from the capital city center. For the moment, there was no rain—no frippering, no glebbening, not even any vinkling—just a dank, heavy fog, so he decided to walk.

  Yrena’s small home was typical of the region, designed in what Odo had come to recognize as traditional Ferengi mammato-moderne style, with rounded mildew-resistant walls that facilitated runoff from the almost constant precipitation. As he got closer, Odo noticed a tall, sturdy-looking tower rising out of the back of the building. A glow from the frosted windows near the top streamed incongruously through the chill mist. The effect reminded Odo of an illustration of a lighthouse that he’d seen in a Bajoran children’s book.

  The tower seemed an odd architectural affectation, considering the location. Nowhere near the waterfront, Odo thought as he arrived at the front door. Well, I suppose it keeps the low-flying air shuttles from hitting the building.

  A female Ferengi came to the door, her nude body draped in a lacy mourning veil. She appeared to be several decades younger than Chartreux, although by no means youthful. Odo identified himself and promised that he wouldn’t take much of her time. Then he began asking questions.

  Her answers were straightforward, albeit somewhat perfunctory.

  Yes, she was Frin’s wife Yrena.

  Yes, he could enter her home—after he paid her the requisite latinum.

  Yes, her nephew Quark had paid her a visit a few days earlier.

  Yes, he had asked her about the taverns that her husband left her.

  No, she hadn’t agreed to any transactions related to the taverns. Truth be told, she didn’t know a darn thing about operating a tavern. “Thank goodness for Hilt!” she added.

  “Hilt?” said Odo, recognizing the name. “Your—”

  “My financial manager,” Yrena said. “A brilliant man. He says he knows just how to make those taverns turn a profit to guarantee my future security.”

  “Indeed,” commented Odo.

  He wasted little time moving on to Wife Number Three, Weede. In her intricately constructed mourning bustle (Odo couldn’t begin to comprehend how she kept it on her derriere without any visible straps), she was the youngest of the wives. But while she apparently had a well-developed sense of fashion, she seemed just as flummoxed by finance as her more mature sister wives. She was open and friendly, eager to answer Odo’s questions. Yes, she’d met with Quark; yes, she had ten taverns; no, she’d had no idea what she could do with them until she’d met her darling financial manager, Hilt—

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” Odo interrupted, “when exactly did you meet this . . . Hilt?”

  “Just aft
er I listed my shares of Frin’s remains on the Futures Exchange,” she responded cheerfully. “He found me! Perfect timing, right?”

  “Perfect,” echoed Odo. “He sounds like a very clever man.” It wasn’t hard for the investigator to imagine where Quark had gone next. “You know, I think I’d like to meet Hilt. Do you have his contact information?”

  Weede waddled into the next room, her bustle swaying, and returned with a digital business card. Odo touched it to the padd he was carrying, duplicating the information, then returned the card to Weede.

  As he headed for the door, he felt Weede grab his arm. “You’re not from around here, are you?” she asked.

  “What makes you say that?” Odo responded.

  “You look so different! I mean, you look really weird but . . . I kind of like it!” She giggled. “You want to have dinner sometime?” She wiggled the bustle to demonstrate her interest.

  Taken aback, Odo took a second to respond. Then: “I regret to say, madam, I don’t eat.”

  And he was out the door.

  Chapter 5

  The heavy fog had turned to choritzing by the time Odo left Weede’s residence, so the shape-shifter waved down a for-hire ground-skimmer. Shaking off the rainwater from head to toe in a long, fluid movement, he climbed into the seat behind the Ferengi pilot. Speaking through the communication port, he read the address that he’d copied from Hilt’s digital card.

  “I don’t go to that part of the city,” came the pilot’s voice from the port. And he triggered the rear door for Odo to exit.

  Odo remained where he was. “Why not?” he asked.

  “It’s very . . . uh, different over there,” the pilot responded.

  “Different how?” the shape-shifter demanded.

  “It’s on the other side of the river. Nobody spends on skimmers over there. I never find a return passenger, so I lose latinum every time I go there. When I go. Which I don’t.”

  Odo contemplated this for a moment, then said. “I’ll pay for the round trip.”