I stood back and observed the people lingering over their drinks. Rush dallied behind the bar, freshening up cocktails as glasses were shoved under his nose. He looked right at home.
McAfee lounged off to one side, puffing on his cigar and staring at Harrison Lawson’s body. He had a wandering look in his eyes and a thin frown upon his lips.
Hadley’s beady eyes concentrated on his drink as he shifted unsteadily from one foot to the other, still in approximately the same spot as when Lawson had dropped.
The doc assisted Hilary into the house and, presumably, upstairs.
The housekeeper returned with a blanket and began straightening it over Lawson. She sniffed and stopped to wipe her eyes with a tissue she pulled from the wrist of her sleeve.
An older, dowdy woman swooned. Two men caught her and eased her to a chair.
“I wonder if they need help,” I mumbled.
“No,” came a throaty female voice from beside me. “That’s Yvonne Rigby. She always makes a scene, though it was nice of her to wait until Hilary left. Usually, she tries to get all the attention right off the bat.”
It was Joan-the-cheerleader-type standing beside me. She dabbed at the corners of her bloodshot blue eyes and attempted a smile. Her mouth quivered as she spoke. “I’m Joan McAfee, Kelby’s wife.” The alcohol on her breath threatened to overwhelm me.
“I’m Mavis Davis,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
“What did Bart mean when he said for you to be ‘more discreet’?”
I stared down at the short, blonde woman. I had a good fifty pounds on her. She wore excessive rouge and bright red lipstick. Her pancake makeup and mascara had smeared together so that she looked clownish. I didn’t know how delicate or sensitive she was, though I suspected she was pretty tough. I shrugged. “I was just asking him some questions.”
“About Harrison?”
“Yes. About his health.”
“He’d had a heart attack before, but he was basically healthy. Worked out every day with James, Kelby, and Earl. I know, because sometimes Kelby gets carried away with racquetball and doesn’t come home on time. I have to call down to the club after him.”
“I see. So you think it was a heart attack, too?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her eyes held a curious, though watery, look.
“I’m sorry if I sound strange. I’m just speculating. Could something else be the cause of death?” I can’t help it; I have a suspicious mind. PIs are supposed to be the suspicious type. It says so in the rule book—rule fifty-five, I think.
Joan put her face very near my ear and whispered, “You think it was other than natural causes, don’t you?” Her voice trembled.
“Do you?” I whispered back.
“I don’t know. There’s always more than meets the eye, isn’t there?” She was still whispering.
“It certainly seemed to be that way when I came in.”
“You’re the expert,” she said. “What do you think happened?”
I was pleased to be called an expert. I’m afraid I preened a little. “I’m not sure. It was odd that he would take a drink and drop down dead like that, though he didn’t look up to snuff when I met him.” Up to snuff, hell, I didn’t want to tell her but ever since I came in I noticed something wasn’t right about the man. His pupils had been dilated, he’d been sweating profusely, he kept dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his handkerchief, his speech was slurred, his hand was damp, he was unsteady on his feet, he’d clutched at his stomach as though in pain, and had a wrenching cough. No, I didn’t think he’d had a heart attack. Something was wrong, though I didn’t know what it was.
“Poison? You think his drink was poisoned?”
“There’s always that possibility,” I said. I wanted to laugh, I don’t know why. “Tell me, Joan—is it all right if I call you Joan?”
She nodded vigorously.
“How did Mr. and Mrs. Lawson get along?”
Her eyes darted around and, as if she were judging whether or not she could be overheard, she looked from Kelby, who was closest to us, to me, and back again. Then she led me a couple of steps away.
I played her conspiracy game, hoping she would tell me something—anything—waiting anxiously for her next words. “Things were not going well lately, I understand.”
I was able to pin down the aroma on her breath to gin, a popular drink with this set, apparently. “From whom?”
“Everybody knew it. Relationships built on a lousy foundation often have trouble making it. Don’t you agree?”
“Mmmm ...” I wanted to hear more about the lousy foundation.
“I don’t see how they lasted this long.” She gave me a knowing look.
“But they’ve been married, what, nineteen or twenty years?”
“Oh, no, darling, barely twelve.” Her eyes suddenly dried up and became bright.
“Then the children—”
“Adopted, you know.”
I nodded as if I had. “What about all these other people, do you know them?”
“Certainly. Hilary and I are the best of friends.”
If that was her best friend behavior, I’d hate to be her worst enemy. “Who’s that man, something-or-other Hadley?”
She slurped from her drink. “Clayton. He’s in real estate. Harrison and he invested in some big commercial properties together.”
“And that tall, blond man at the far end of the pool.” I indicated one of the two men I’d seen engrossed in a conversation earlier.
“Earl Smythe. He was Harrison’s stockbroker. They had a falling out back when the stock market had that large dip—let’s see, when was that?”
I shrugged and nodded. How would I know?
“But I think things are on an even keel now,” Joan said. “Although, you never know.” Her eyes flashed.
“And the man Smythe was talking to when Mr. Lawson died?” I pointed out another man. This was great. The woman was a wealth of information.
“Hmmm . . . let me see—”
“Joan, dear,” a woman in a black swimsuit padded up to us. “I’m so sorry.” The woman kissed the air on each side of Joan’s face.
“Thank you, Gladys,” Joan said and smiled.
I have to repeat, a lot was going on that I didn’t understand. But, I was trying. Seeing as how Gladys didn’t appear to want to fade away into the sunset, I excused myself and walked to the doorway where the man about whom I’d just asked Joan stood. I’d find out for myself.
“Hi, I’m Mavis Davis,” I said as I approached the man with my hand outstretched. He wore a navy sport coat, tan slacks, and tan loafers, and shifted from foot to foot as he stood back and observed the milling about. I thought he must be reaching heat exhaustion in those clothes. He switched his glass to his left hand, wiped his palm with his cocktail napkin, and shook my hand. His clasp was cold, but dry.
“Weylin Scott, National Insurance Trust.”
“Pardon?”
“Sorry,” he said, looking sheepish. “I said ‘National Insurance Trust,’ but I didn’t mean to. It’s a habit with me. Always selling, selling, selling—but then, that’s what got me here in the first place.”
“Insurance?”
“Yes,” he said. “I work for Harrison. Mr. Lawson?”
“Oh, yes, at the company.” I pretended I knew what the hell he was talking about.
He smiled. It was a nice one, broad straight teeth that showed off his olive complexion. “Your first cocktail party here, Miss Davis?”
“Yes and undoubtedly my last. What about you?”
“Yeah, same here. Now that Harrison’s dead, they’ll probably be at the McAfee’s in the future. That is, if the board promotes him. I haven’t been there long enough to even be considered for it, but salesman of the year is a good start, don’t you think? That’s how you get promoted, sell, sell, sell.”
“Is that why you’re here? Salesman of the year?”
“Yes. That’s how it starts, se
e. They look you over after you get salesman of the year, and if they like you enough, then you get bumped up. I only wish I had a wife. It helps, you know.”
That sounded old-fashioned to me, but I nodded. “How long have you been with the company?”
“Eighteen months. Harrison handpicked me himself. Recruited me right off the Rice University campus.”
“Lucky you.”
“It was quite a break,” he said. “I haven’t let him down, either, but his dying like this has let me down. Now that I think of it, I’d better go speak to Kelby. Pardon me,” he said and cut through a group of people who stood between us and the bar.
I observed everyone for a few minutes, wondering who among them would have a motive for murdering Mr. Lawson. I know, my imagination was getting the better of me. Okay, if in fact it was a murder. It could have been nothing more than heart failure. My thoughts wandered to the two missing—adopted—children. And why was Gladys giving her condolences to Joan? Was Joan his sister or something? She didn’t look that broken up and there was no family resemblance.
From my vantage point, I could see everyone except Hilary Lawson and Doctor Bart, who, no doubt, were upstairs in her room. It was quite a crowd. Insurance people. Real estate people. Stockbrokers. What I knew about them could fit on the head of a pin. I didn’t even have any. Insurance, I mean. I’d better not tell Weylin that or I’d be signed up before I could think twice. I didn’t have any real estate, either. Or stocks, bonds, or mutual funds. Just the working poor, that’s me. While I stood pondering, the front door apparently opened to let some other people inside, because the next thing I heard was a rude voice that said, “Well, if it isn’t Mustang Sally.”
Chapter Six
I cringed as I turned and saw ludicrous Lon, the worst of Houston’s finest, breathing hot and heavy, his fat face flushing, followed by an entourage of boys in blue and a couple of EMTs. “There goes the neighborhood,” I said.
“Ha. Ha. Very funny,” he said as he wiped his brow on the sleeve of his jacket. Huge circles of sweat stained the fabric under his armpits, which emitted an odor I’d rather not describe. “Okay, men,” Lon barked, “get to work. Herd all those people inside and don’t let any of them leave without talking to me first.” Turning to me, he said, “What the hell’re you doing here, Mavis Davis?”
I cringed again. There had always been something about the way he said my name that made me feel like my ears were going to shrivel up and fall off. Our historic mutual contempt dated back to when I was a probation officer with a mission and he was a rookie cop on an ego trip. “Working,” I said. “And you? Who called the police?”
The EMTs hurried to the body while we talked. I watched them do an examination and shake their heads.
“Ha ha, very funny,” Lon said again, underwhelming me with his vocabulary, as usual. His eyes gave the area a once over. “That the stiff under the blanket?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Harrison Lawson. In the midst of a conversation at the bar, he fell down, groaned, and that was it. Next thing we knew, he was dead.”
“You ain’t touched the body or nothing have you?” Lon did his best to give me the evil eye, but I am not easily intimidated and especially not by him.
“Lon, I swear, I’ve done nothing except procure the blanket.” I held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“You shouldn’t even of done that! You stay here. I’m gonna take a look.” He shot me another dark glance that I suppose was intended to put the fear of God in me. The EMTs spoke to him and left. When Lon peeled the blanket back, his complexion turned something akin to sea green. He dropped the blanket into place and pulled out his handkerchief, picking up the largest piece of glass. He motioned for a uniform.
James Rush accosted me. “Did you call the police?”
I took it that he was having a fine time playing host and didn’t want to give it up. I patted him on the hand. “Actually, no,” I said. “But someone did. Who do you think it was?”
A frown pulled at his lips.
“Well, I’m sure it won’t be long, Mr. Rush. There’re enough officers here that they can be through quickly and you can be on your way.”
He grimaced. From the looks of him, there was something on his mind, but I’m damned if I could fathom what it was. I slipped my arm through his and, when Lon returned in our direction, I introduced them.
“Detective Tyler, this is James G. Rush, the famous plaintiffs’ attorney. Mr. Rush, this is Detective Tyler, homicide.”
“Oh, yeah?” Lon said, his eyes lit up and his face broke out in a crooked, toothy grin. He extended his hand in Rush’s direction. “I read all about you. You just won some big case worth millions.”
Rush, whose nose wrinkled up when he got close to Lon, nevertheless shook the man’s hand and smiled as best he could. “You don’t say.”
“Yeah, what was it, ten or fifteen mil?”
“Close,” Rush said as he pulled his napkin from around his glass, mopped his brow, and then wiped the hand Lon had shaken.
“Lon, how long’s it going to be before you can release the Lawsons’ guests? Some of them are pretty upset and would like to get out of here,” I said.
“O—Oh.” He looked over his shoulder as though just remembering where he was. “Well, glad to meet you, Mr. Rush. You hang in here a minute and we’ll get your statement and then you can go.” To me, he said, “Mavis, you come over here.”
“Just what are you doing here, anyway?” he asked, his face close enough to mine that I got a whiff of breath so sour it would have curdled milk.
I’d been asking myself the same question. Who’d have believed it? I don’t think the rule book for private investigators ever addressed the issue of what to do if a death occurred in one’s presence.
“Investigating a runaway kid,” I whispered into Lon’s face. “I didn’t know they’d have a party while their kid was missing, for Christ’s sake, so I just came over and all these people were here and I was talking to the decedent and he fell down dead.”
Lon’s face looked like a curious Neanderthal’s. He poked his stubby forefinger into my sternum. “You wait. I want to talk to you in a few minutes.” He stalked over to the uniforms who had accompanied him.
I waited, not so patiently. The back door stood open and I could see people talking to the police, giving their names and statements, I suppose. James Rush stayed outside behind the bar. I noticed a small clear glass tube lying in a puddle of water. The tube was about the size of a cologne sample. I’ve seen Margaret use them at the office. The diameter is smaller than a pencil and the length, shorter than my pinkie.
Mrs. Lawson didn’t seem to be the cologne-sample-type. Even if she was, she wouldn’t bring samples down to the pool. Could it be? No. Well—only one way to find out.
Smiling my best, I wove my way from the lawn chair where I’d been planted by Lon, around the pool, to the bar. “Looks like I’m going to be here awhile. May I have another bottle of water, please?” I had the toe of my pump at the edge of the glass tube, but how could I pick it up without being conspicuous or smearing fingerprints, if any?
I placed my shoulder bag onto the bar and dug for my pack of cigarettes until I remembered that I’d quit smoking. Damn it. It would have fit perfectly. Well, if I could grasp the ends with my thumb and forefinger and slip it into my skirt pocket without seeming too obvious . . .
“What’s that you’re pointing at with your toe, Mavis?” Lon reached down and picked up the object in question and laughed at me as he dropped it into his own pocket. If there had been a print, it was gone now.
“I was wondering that myself, officer,” I said. I pulled myself onto a bar stool and uncapped the bottle of water, taking another long swig. Why hadn’t I just painted a sign in bold letters with an arrow pointing to the glass tube? Shit.
Chuckling, Lon stalked away.
Rush, I thought, had an odd look in his eyes, but he promptly mixed and tossed back another drink.
I waited several more minutes before Lon finally came back. “Now, what was you sayin’, Mavis?”
I gave him my brightest smile, anxious to get out of there. I figured I’d be able to get the guest list later, and I didn’t think I needed to wait for the missus. She wouldn’t be sober enough to talk even if she did come back downstairs, what with the alcohol and whatever drugs the plastic surgeon had in store for her.
“I was hired to look for a runaway daughter a couple of days ago—the brother hired me. I went to the high school and hit the streets but no luck. Then I thought maybe I ought to check it out with her folks, Lon, since I hadn’t, so I came over here and the old man—I mean, the decedent—was sort of ragging me around and then he took a gulp of his drink and wham. Dropped down dead. If you ask me, I think something funny is going on.” I let out a long breath and took another. “Furthermore, Lon, I think you’ve got some great suspects here—”
“Just hold your horses, Mavis. I’ll do the thinking around here—Jesus Christ. Everyone says it was a heart attack.”
The Sweet Scent of Murder Page 5
