Authors: Lawrence Sanders
I tried to recall everything she had said during our final conversation. Then I consulted my journal, which offered some assistance but no actual quotations. She had spoken of taking control of her own life, of solving her money worries, of outsmarting persons unknown who were apparently treating her with contempt.
I did remember exactly one thing she had said, and in light of what I had witnessed that afternoon it was so poignant I drained my drink and poured another. She had said, "I'm in the driver's seat now." But the last time I saw her, she wasn't in the driver's seat at all, was she. She was crumpled in the rear of a sodden car, one pale, dead foot dangling.
I endured that aching memory as long as I could, and then I phoned Consuela Garcia. I had to talk to a young woman who was still alive. After what had happened to Shirley Feebling and Marcia Hawkin I was beginning to fear I had become a Jonah and all the ladies of my acquaintance were doomed.
"Hiya, Archy," Connie said warmly. "I'm glad you called. Did you hear what happened to Marcia Hawkin? It was on TV."
"Yes," I said, "I heard."
"Sounds like suicide to me," she said. "The poor kid. Maybe her father's murder pushed her over the edge."
"Maybe. What have you been up to, Connie?"
"Oh, this and that. Lady Horowitz is running me ragged. Right now we're planning a buffet dinner for fifty. The McNallys are on the A-list. Isn't that nice?"
"Splendiferous," I said, delighted she wasn't going to give me a blow-by-blow account of her date with Wes Trumbaugh. "What are you serving the serfs?"
"Cold seafood. Lobster, shrimp, crabmeat, scallops, oysters, periwinkles, calamari, and lots of other swell stuff."
My appetite returned with a jolt. "I'll starve myself for two days to prepare for that feast," I promised. "Plenty of flinty white wine?"
"Of course."
"Wonderful. When can I see you again, Connie?"
"Soon," she said. "Give me a buzz on Friday, Archy. Okay?"
"Will do," I said happily. "Get a good night's sleep."
"I'm already in bed."
"Under that poster of Bogart? 'Here's looking at you, kid.' "
She giggled and hung up.
I went in for my shower, but my mopes had already been sluiced away. I had a prof at Yale who was something of a misogynist and was fond of paraphrasing Thoreau by remarking, "Most women lead lives of noisy desperation."
Not Connie Garcia. She is a bubbler and always inflates my spirits except, of course, when she is dumping a bowl of linguine on my head as punishment for a real or fancied infidelity. But other than her occasional physical assaults, she really is a 24-karat woman.
Lacking only a blue butterfly tattoo.
That was my last lubricious thought before Morpheus and I embraced. Away we went. I awoke on Thursday morning ready to slay dragons. I donned a somber costume, for I had decided that my first port of call would be the Hawkin home, an obligatory visit of condolence I hoped to make as brief as possible.
It was a 3-H day in South Florida: hot, humid, hazy. I wondered, not for the first time, if I wouldn't have been wiser to opt for roofed transportation rather than a convertible. But surrendering my dashing Miata would destroy my self-image of a damn-the-torpedoes buckler of swashes. I wasn't quite ready to do that. Sometimes egoism demands sacrifices.
When I turned into the Hawkins' driveway I saw, parked at the front door, the white Lincoln Town Car belonging to Hector Johnson. My first reaction was to turn and flee, but then I thought why should I. His presence might even be an assist in my expressing the McNally family's sympathies as quickly as possible, and then leaving him to provide additional solace to the twice-bereaved Louise.
But it was Theodosia Johnson who opened the door. Madam X was wearing a longish dress of aubergine silk, and she seemed preternaturally pale, features composed but drawn. It was the face of a woman who had suffered a sleepless night—completely understandable if the Hawkins and Johnsons had been as intimate as I imagined.
"Archy," she said, clasping my hand and drawing me inside, "it's good of you to come."
"How is Mrs. Hawkin?" I asked.
"Surviving," she said. "But just barely."
She led me into the Florida room. Louise and Hector were seated close together on the couch. He was holding her hand, gazing at her with an expression of sorrowful concern. On the cocktail table before them was a silver coffee service, three cups and saucers, and a bottle of California brandy. Johnson glanced up as I entered, and Mrs. Hawkin gave me a befuddled stare as if not quite certain of my identity.
"Ma'am," I said, beginning to recite my rehearsed speech, "I'd like to extend the condolences of myself and my parents. It is a terrible tragedy. If there is any way we can help, please let us know."
"Thank you," she said in the wispiest of voices.
"Hey, Arch, how about a cuppa jamoke?" Hector asked in his brutish way. "With a slug of the old nasty to put lead in your pencil."
"Oh, father," Theo said in a tone of disgust that expressed my own.
"Thank you, no," I said. "I just stopped by for a moment to offer the sympathy of the McNally family. Mrs. Hawkin, is there anything at all we can do to assist you?"
She looked at Johnson. "Nah," he said to me. "It's damned decent of you, but Theo and I are going to take care of our Louise. And she's going to be just fine. Aren't you, hon?"
She nodded and reached for a coffee cup with a trembling hand. But before she could lift it to her lips he slopped in a dollop of brandy.
"Father," Theo said sharply, "that's enough."
"Not yet," he said. "She's got a lot of grief to forget and this is the best medicine."
His daughter sat down abruptly in a rattan armchair, crossed her legs, and immediately one foot began to jerk up and down in vexation. I remained standing, knowing I should depart but enthralled by this unpleasant scene that was threatening to become a high-octane confrontation.
"Louise," Theo said, "wouldn't you like to lie down for a while? Take a pill and get some rest."
"She doesn't need a pill," Hector said. "Those things are poison. Just leave her alone; she'll get through it."
"The woman needs sleep," Theo said angrily. "Can't you see that?"
I was bemused by the way they spoke, as if Mrs. Hawkin was not present. But I don't believe the poor woman was even aware of the contention swirling around her. She sipped her brandy-laced coffee and stared vacantly into space.
"Just mind your own business, kid," Hector said. "I know what I'm doing."
"Since when?" Theo said. "She just lost her husband and stepdaughter. Give her a break."
He looked at her coldly. "Keep it up and you'll get a break," he said.
There was no mistaking the menace in his voice, and I suddenly realized this was more than a family squabble. Their conflict was fascinating, but I had no desire to be a witness to violence. Chivalrous heroism comes rather far down on my list of virtues.
"Theo," I said, "I wonder if I might have a glass of water."
She glared at me, furious that I was interrupting the wrangle. But then she softened, her taut body relaxed; she recognized my effort to end an unseemly shindy in a house of sorrow.
"Sure, Archy," she said, rising. "Come with me."
She led the way without hesitation as if it was her home and there was no need to ask permission from the owner. But once we were in the tiled kitchen her wrath returned.
"That crude son of a bitch," she said, leaning close so I could hear her low voice. "Couth? He never heard the word. He just bulls his way through life, all fists and elbows. He'll get his one of these days. Do you really want a drink of water?"
"Yes, please."
She took it from the tap on the refrigerator door, and I drained the glass gratefully.
She reached to stroke my hair. "You look very handsome this morning, Archy," she said. "Dressed so formally. But I prefer you in something more casual. Or nothing at all."
Her brazenness shocked me and she must have seen it in my face because she laughed delightedly and pressed her body against mine. "Don't worry, darling," she said, "I'm not going to be a problem. I'm going to marry Chauncey and become a nice little hausfrau."
"You may find you enjoy it," I told her.
"Do you really believe that?" she asked.
"No," I said, and she kissed me.
I drew regretfully away. Her flesh felt glossy under that silk, and she was wearing a scent I could not identify, although I suspected cantharides might have been one of the ingredients.
We moved back to the Florida room, and I made a respectful farewell, which Louise Hawkin and Hector Johnson barely acknowledged. Madam X gave me a wave and a devilish smile, and I left the Villa Bile. My original label for that house now seemed more apt than ever.
I exited to find Sgt. Al Rogoff leaning against the fender of his parked pickup. He was wearing civvies—a suit of khaki poplin, white shirt, black knitted tie—and puffing one of his fat cigars.
"I thought you were on a forty-eight," I said to him.
"Still am," he said. "And still working my tail to the bone. Who's inside besides Mrs. Hawkin?"
"Theodosia and Hector Johnson."
"I'll wait till they leave. I'd like to talk to the widow alone."
"You may have to wait until Hades has a cold snap," I informed him. "The Johnsons have taken over."
"Oh-ho," he said. "It's like that, is it?"
"Apparently."
He gestured toward the white Lincoln. "Is that his?"
"Yep."
"Nice," Rogoff said. "Do you know what he did before he moved down here?"
"You name it, Al, and he's done it. I've heard a dozen different versions of his former occupation."
"Yeah?" the sergeant said, grinning. "I know what it was."
I stared at him for a few beats before I caught it. "You swine!" I cried. "You heard from Michigan."
"That's right," he said. "I was going to give you a call. Want to come to my place tonight? We can talk about it then."
"Can't you tell me now?"
"No. I want to go inside and brace Mrs. Hawkin."
"Forget it," I advised. "The lady is half in the bag. Hector has been invigorating her morning coffee with California brandy."
"All to the good.
In vino Veritas.
Come over to my wagon around nine o'clock. Okay?"
"I'll be there," I promised. "Is the scoop on Johnson and Hagler interesting?"
"Very," he said. He tossed away the stub of his cigar, straightened his jacket, began striding up to the door.
"Al," I called, and he turned back. "About Marcia Hawkin," I said. "Was it suicide?"
He smiled grimly. "Not unless she managed to wring her own neck."
What a curtain line that was! I drove back to the McNally Building with my thoughts awhirl. The Miata had just had a tune-up and I wished my brain could get the same. I mean I simply could not make sense of what was happening: three homicides and the seemingly irrational behavior of the people involved.
Oh, I could concoct several scenarios but all were too bizarre to convince even a fantasist like me. I kept trying to rein in my supercharged imagination and remind myself that usually the most complex evils are the result of the most prosaic of motives: greed and revenge, for instance. But even concentrating on the basics of crime detection yielded no hint as to the connection between the murders of Silas Hawkin, Shirley Feebling, and Marcia Hawkin. If there was a solution to that conundrum, it eluded me.
Only temporarily, of course. I assure you I shall not end this account by confessing failure. You'd never speak to me again.
I had hoped to spend the remainder of that morning sitting quietly in my office composing my expense account. Quiet was necessary since my monthly swindle sheet demands intense creativity. I will not claim it is
totally
factual but it is
based
on fact. The theme is exaggeration rather than prevarication. To quote an historic American epigram, "I am not a crook."
But peace was not to be mine. I found on my desk a message from our receptionist stating that Mrs. Jane Folsby had phoned and requested I return her call. I immediately did so and let the phone ring seven times but received no reply. I put the message aside and began assembling the bills, memos, vouchers, and receipts that were to provide evidence, however flimsy, for my claimed reimbursement.
I had hardly started when my phone rang and I hoped it might be Mrs. Folsby. No such luck. I recognized that whiny voice at once.
"Archy?" he said.
"Chauncey," I said, "how are you?"
"All right," he said. "I guess."
"I understand congratulations are in order."
"What? Oh, you mean me and Theodosia. Well, sure, thanks."
"You must be a very happy man."
"Uh, not completely. Archy, I have a problem. I'd like to talk to you about it. Get your input."
"CW," I said, "if it's legal input you require, I suggest you consult my father. I'm just a rank amateur."
"Well, uh, it's not really legal input," he whined. "At least not at this stage. It's more friendly input I need."
By this time the input madness was sending me right up the wall. But I was determined not to be the first to surrender. "Well, I can provide that," I told the Chinless Wonder. "I presume you're speaking of personal input."
"That's right," he said eagerly. "Intimate input."
"Confidential input?"
"Correct! Top secret input."
Then I knew I was never going to win the Great Input War. "Chauncey," I said, sighing, "what exactly is it you want?"
"Can you come over to my office?"
"At the bank? Now?"
He had the decency to say, "Please."
"You wouldn't care to chat over lunch? At Bice perhaps?"
"Oh no," he said hastily. "No, no, no. Someone might overhear. My office would be best."
"Better than my garage," I said, alluding to our previous meeting. "Very well, CW, I'll come at once."
"Thank you," he said, and the whine had an overtone of piteousness.
I walked to his bank, only a short distance on Royal Palm Way. The building was definitely
not
Florida. It looked like a Vermont relic of the 1920s: heavy granite exterior, towering pillars, a marbled, high-ceilinged interior, brass-barred cages for the tellers. And a funereal silence. Even the antiquated clients spoke in whispers.