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 understand,” 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 after 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.