by David Bishop
Then again, this is something I should discuss with my therapist, as soon as I get one, and not all of you, at least not right now, my visitors were waiting. In my head, all this took less time than it took you to read it.
“Where is it, Kile?” The bigger man asked, probably after deciding he had given me enough time to mentally reminisce about my ex-wife and our respective contributions to our divorce.
“Where is what?” I asked in reply, doubting that they knew. They were fishing to see if I had gotten anything from Camille.
“Don’t fool with us. Where is it?”
“I don’t know what—” Then the shot rang out. Well, spit out. The gun was wearing a noise suppressor. The bullet hit the wooden post of the double bed a foot from my right ear. Wood shavings slapped my cheek. I flinched.
“Your last warning, Kile. Give it up.”
“Hey, guys. Whoever you are, you’ve already rifled my luggage and searched my person. I’m clueless. I have only what I came with. I haven’t even bought any mementoes to take home to my loved ones.”
The next shot tore out another chunk, this time from the opposite foot post a bit farther from my head. That part was good. This shot had been fired by the man on the other side of me.
“I hope you two are hitting the foot posts because you’re good shots and not because you’re bad shots. Bottom line, guys, you can search me and my things as long as you want. Take anything you find that appeals to you. Hell, take all of it and sort it out later. I don’t know what you want. I don’t know what to do here.”
“Tell us about your visit today with Camille Trenet.”
“What? Oh my God. That. Sure. I came to see a woman named Chantal Talmadge. Turns out the woman has been dead for years; I don’t know exactly how long. Camille Trenet is her sister. For me, the visit was a dead-end, although right at the moment, I don’t like using the word dead in any context.”
“You were there yesterday as well. Why two days?”
“Can I move my hand? The blood on my neck is feeling … icky.”
“Slowly.”
“Okay,” I said after wiping. “Yesterday, I went looking for Chantal and found her sister, Camille. We visited for a few hours, a big waste.”
“What was your interest in Chantal Talmadge?” The guy to my right was doing most of the questioning. On that question, his accent seemed a bit more pronounced.
“An attorney in Long Beach, California, is defending a woman named Clarice Talmadge for the murder of her husband, Garson Talmadge, who got shot dead last week. Chantal is a former wife of Garson Talmadge. The attorney wanted to check all the angles. He sent me to see if Chantal could tell us anything that might help defend Clarice.”
“Exactly what did this attorney want to know?”
“Anything. This was a fishing expedition. We wondered if Garson had stayed in touch with Chantal, maybe written to her about his relations with Clarice. Anything at all that might argue against Clarice having killed Garson. If we had known Chantal was dead, I wouldn’t even be here.”
“What else?”
“He was curious about the Talmadge children. That’s pretty much it. Like I say, the attorney’s fishing. I think he’s daffy, but, what the hell, I get expenses and my daily rate to visit France.”
“Why does this attorney want to know about the kids? Before you answer, get up slowly and move onto the bed with your back against the headboard. Put your feet back like they are now. Hands crossed in front of you. Do it.”
I moved onto the bed.
“The kids?” He repeated.
“Nothing. Everything. Anything. I’m guessing here, but attorneys in murder cases often want to find other possible suspects. If they can get the jury to wonder if someone else killed the guy, then the jury may develop reasonable doubt. That’s a big thing, reasonable doubt, in American murder trials. There weren’t a lot of folks to pick from to promote the alternative killer theory. The kids would get a good amount of money from their papa’s will. Might they have killed him to get to it sooner? Maybe Chantal, the ex-wife came over to get revenge, and she killed him. She would make an excellent alternative killer, but that didn’t work, her being dead and all. Like I said, I’m guessing here, the frigging attorney only tells me so much, but it makes no sense to me. Kids don’t go around killing their fathers. It’s a nutty idea, but hey, like I said, I got an expense paid trip to Paris. Why should I complain? Right?”
“Roll over on your face, feet and arms apart. Spread eagle.”
I did.
“Why did you go back today?”
I felt the bed move. Then I heard a digging sound, more like gouging than digging. One of my guests was retrieving the bullets from the foot posts.
“That was nothing. Camille likes to drink. When I was there, she promised she would contact me if she thought of anything. Standard investigation stuff, you know, if you think of anything further, please get in touch with me. My flight out wasn’t until tomorrow morning, so I took her a case of her favorite whiskey. That woman can really put it away. I figured a token gesture might make her feel good toward me so she would call on the off chance she did think of anything. Hey, it’s fun spending an expense account. I would’ve bought you guys something if I had known you’d be stopping by.”
“Where did you take her?” The voice came from the other side, the side from where I felt the bed moving.
“Oh that? She got to drinking and talking about her sister dying without a will. Said she had to get her own will drawn. Said she would likely leave what little she had to her sister’s children, Garson Talmadge’s kids. That she had no one else. She knew of an attorney, but she had no car and didn’t know when she might get to see him. She called after I offered to have my cabbie drive her down there; I had the taxi on the daily rate so it didn’t cost me extra. She got an appointment. We waited and drove her back. I had time and felt sorry for the old gal. I had nothing better to do. This whole trip was a big blowoff to tell the truth of it, and now this foolishness is wasting your time, too.”
While I answered, the digging stopped. They had retrieved their slugs.
“When are you going home, Mr. Kile?”
“Tomorrow morning. But I appreciate you not letting me spend my last evening in Paris alone. You sure you guys aren’t with the tourist bureau?”
They said nothing more. I heard nothing more. Not even the click of the hotel room door. I stayed as I was, in the spread eagle position on the bed for a few minutes. I had guessed correctly. They didn’t want the international incident of killing a celebrity writer with a huge fan base. Well, maybe not a celebrity, and maybe not a huge fan base. Let’s just say a writer with a few loyal readers.
After chugging a short bottle of cognac from the minibar, I took a long, hot shower. The water felt good running against the top of my head, although it did burn as it ran over the abrasions and short wire cut on my neck. I checked it in the mirror. The skin had been broken in several places, and the hot water got it bleeding again. I wrapped it in toilet paper while I finished off the other two small bottles of cognac and a pony bottle of French champagne. Most countries prominently feature the products of their own country; America should do that as well.
I would apparently survive my memories of France, although that would not be certain until tomorrow late morning when my flight left the earthly bounds of Paris. I hoped one day I would return to take in more of the history and art of the country. I also hoped my newfound friends would be in hell by the time I came back, or better yet, be waiting to give me the opportunity to send them on their way.
Chapter 20
The next morning, before leaving Pierre’s cab, I lowered the armrest in the center of the backseat. After pulling free the Velcro strap, I opened the ski storage area that extended forward from the trunk, and removed Chantal’s diary and Camille’s affidavit. The iffy decision I had made last night had paid off. Maybe it had even kept me alive.
My long flight gave me lots of t
ime to read Chantal’s diary and to reexamine all that I had learned and what I thought it all meant. It also gave me time to decide that after this case, I would stick to writing about crime and punishment. Getting beaten up and shot at for real was a lot more painful than for the characters in my books. Speaking against this solid reasoning was the fact that while there were women like Susan and Clarice in my novels, the femme fatales in books only walked in your mind, didn’t really kiss you, and can’t, how should I say this, use more than words to show their appreciation.
* * *
More hours later than I want to know, I staggered into my Long Beach condo. I wanted to sleep a hundred years, but that would make shaving the next morning a bitch.
Since my divorce, I hadn’t really thought of any place I’d lived as home, but right now my condo felt like home. I kicked off my shoes and stripped down, then walked naked into the kitchen. The under-cabinet lighting let me see to crush some ice, drop it in an old-fashioned glass, and add a twist of lemon, all of which I drowned in two jiggers of Tullamore Dew. After one sip, things looked better. I headed out to the balcony to listen to the ocean. On the way, I stepped on something hard and small. After howling and hopping a few times on the opposite foot, I found one of Asta’s crunchy dog treats embedded in the soft underbelly of my foot. I smiled and wondered how the little pooch was doing, probably very well. I imagined the little dog cuddling into Susan’s warm curves. These were the females in my life now, two murder suspects and a chihuahua. I say that without counting my daughters and my ex, for they were no longer in my life, but they were still my life.
My relationship with Susan was only beginning, but I liked her, and she had let me know she felt the same. I had a brief fantasy about her which took place right there in my kitchen. The fantasy ended with my picking up the toaster and a few other items which had been knocked to the floor. If the fantasy had been for real, I could have skipped tearing this month’s page off my celibacy calendar. I longed to switch to weekly celibacy calendars, but right now in my life, it was enough of a challenge just thinking in terms of once a month.
Unlike my continuing and messy, yet somewhat friendly relationship with my ex-wife, my relationship with Susan was uncomplicated.
Except I have slept with her stepmother. And I had never fantasized having a mother-daughter thing with both of them at the same time. That would be … disgusting, maybe. Oh and there’s the part about Susan’s stepmother being my client who is under arrest for murdering Susan’s father, who may not actually be Susan’s father. I’ve also been in a fight, more like a tussle, with Susan’s brother. We don’t like each other, her brother and me. And then there’s this: if I do my job well, it may end with Susan getting a couple million dollars less from her father’s estate, or with her or her stepmother in prison.
Susan is incredibly beautiful and sensuous. In case you aren’t aware, there is a difference, not to mention her being intelligent, fun, and easy to be with. Oh, yeah, one more thing; I’m over-the-top horny.
Okay. You’re right. I admit it. My relationship with Susan is complicated, very complicated. Still, bottom line, horny trumps complicated every time.
Chapter 21
I started the morning back on the balcony with a container of yogurt which carried a use-by date that had come-and-gone while I was France, two pieces of buttered toast and a big mug of hot coffee. I had given the building superintendent who already had keys to all the condos for emergencies, a copy of my mailbox key. Whenever I traveled, he brought my mail up and put it inside my condo. It’s amazing what good service you can get from people who claim to be overworked, simply by being a generous tipper. Before going out to the balcony, I picked up the mail he had left on my kitchen counter and tossed it on the tray along with my eats.
I usually took along my laptop so I could check a few stocks I own and the ball scores, but not this morning. First order of business was to prioritize a list of things that needed to be done, all of which seemed to be chanting: do me first. I needed to get Camille Trenet’s affidavit to Brad Fisher, along with her sister Chantal’s diary. I needed to pick up Asta and spend some time with Susan. My loins had already voted for doing that first, but my head said it would fit better nearer the end of the day. I also wanted to learn more about why the FBI had been so interested in my trip to France.
I needed to chat with Fidge. Fill him in on my adventure in France. And, sometime or other, I needed to stop at a supermarket to get some fresh yogurt, fruit, and to prove the urgency of going to the store, I had just used my last coffee filter.
I refilled my coffee cup and settled back to go through the mail, which consisted of several bills and a quarterly royalty statement from my publisher. It’s a good thing to get some income in the mail along with the bills. For some time I had been thinking about hiring an assistant, maybe just part time. Someone to deal with the mail, prepare the bills for payment, and respect the occasional request from a reader. Most mail from readers is email. I always answer those personally, and keep a post box for my readers who don’t do email. It’s surprising how many folks don’t. The duty roster for the prospective part-timer was already growing.
My last cellmate, Axel, was getting out of prison in about two years. He had been in since his mid twenties; I guessed his age now to be in the sixties. Some of the other old-timers described Axel as a tough and mean youngster who had dropped the chip off his shoulder as he aged and become a grand old man, kind to everyone. While Axel was inside, he had worked as a secretary of sorts for the warden and had become a whiz on the computer. Axel and I shared a cell my last two years. I knew he was scared stiff about getting out. For virtually all of his life, someone else had decided when Axel went to bed. When he got up and what he ate. Had picked out his clothes, chose when he exercised, well, you get the idea. He had not shopped for anything for forty years. He would have to learn how to drive all over again. Cars were so different, and at his age, learning to drive again would not be easy. When all of this suddenly gangs up on the longtime con, it can be overwhelming. More than once I’d thought about hiring Axel. I had even asked my attorney to talk to the parole board and see if Axel might get let out early. I’d like to help him ease back into society. Then again, I wasn’t too keen on having a regular reminder of my lost years. I’d have to think on it more.
The mail the super left on the counter had included an envelope without a stamp or a return identity. The note inside had no name, but I knew Fidge’s handwriting: We must talk. Don’t call. I’ll expect you after the house goes dark; come to the kitchen door.
Chapter 22
Brad’s legal assistant said the man could see me at ten-forty-five. He would be free from then until noon, but he had a lunch appointment. I showered, dressed, and made it to his office with no time to spare.
“How was Paris?” he asked for openers. “Did you have any more trouble from the FBI or the Paris Prefecture of Police?”
“Not exactly.” The furrow in his brow deepened as I told him about the gunshot warning and the damage done to the bedposts in my hotel room, not to mention my neck and sense of well-being.
“You weren’t hurt?”
“No. They shot up the bed bedposts, not me.”
“Did your trip bear any fruit?”
I handed him Camille’s affidavit and sat silently while he read it. Then he said, “The diary?” I handed it over and went back to being quiet. After a few minutes, he said, “I can’t read all of this right now, but I will. Have you read it?”
I nodded. “In the plane. It’s interesting and clearly supports all that we hoped it would. Susan and Charles are not Garson’s children. The father was a French big shot. It appears his identity died with Garson. We don’t know whether he’s a maker of weapons or a government official who was paid to grease the wheels for the deals.”
“Can we find him?” Brad asked.
“Sure. All we need is DNA from a couple hundred or so men in powerful positions, including those
who have left industry or government, and throw in those who have died since Garson’s children were born.”
“Oh. That ought to be easy,” Brad said while shaking his head. “I’m betting the real father is still alive and still a big shot. He’s the guy who ordered the shot across your bow and the visits in your hotel room.”
“I agree. Maybe the FBI knows,” I added as an afterthought.
“You know someone there who might talk to you?”
“Maybe, there’s a woman agent in the L.A. field office who helped me a bit on one of my stories last year. I got to know her, strictly professionally speaking. With Garson being here, the L.A. office likely is heading up whatever inquiry the FBI is making.”
