Back upstairs, Brad thanked the librarian for her help. Hannah Greer returned to her desk as Brad walked toward the door. Before leaving, he looked back. She was watching him. They both smiled slightly. Both of them knew why.
* * * *
At ten the next morning, Brad rang the doorbell at the King mansion. Diane King herself answered the door. She was a tall, regal woman with perfectly coiffed maize-blond hair and a splendid figure, wearing one of the new pant suits that had recently come into vogue for women.
"Come in, Mr. Bradford,” she said easily. “We'll talk on the patio. There's coffee."
Brad followed her through a richly furnished dining room to a patio laid in deep red Haitian root stone, ringed by a wall of yellow roses.
The east patio, Edward Bliss had said, her favorite side of the mansion ... yellow roses ... also her favorite...
"Mr. Bradford,” Diane King said as she poured coffee from a silver pot, “the only reason I consented to see you when you telephoned was because you said you had seen Edward and he told you that he believes I murdered my husband. If he told you that much, I'm certain he must have told you a great deal more. Such as the fact that he and I were lovers. Which is true. But I assure you, I had nothing to do with Lyle's death. My late husband and I had an understanding: He went his way, I went mine.” As she spoke, Brad saw that there was a frankness in her eyes.
"Did your husband know about you and Bliss?” he asked.
Diane King shrugged her elegant shoulders. “Possibly. No, probably.” She smiled tolerantly. “We didn't discuss our affairs; we weren't that decadent. But we were usually aware of what the other was doing, at least distantly."
"Was your husband having an affair with someone at the time he was murdered?"
"Probably. Most likely several someones. He was a ladies’ man.” She smiled again, in amusement this time. “I used to find all those silly little telltale signs that wives notice: makeup smudges on his shirt collar, perfume scents on his shirt and coat. Often it was jasmine fragrance. Jasmine is a cheap, dime-store perfume. Something I never use, of course."
"Do you know who his most recent mistresses were?"
"No. I never really cared to know.” She sipped her coffee, then said, “Shall we get to the main point of your visit? Not that I have to, but how can I convince you that I did not murder my husband?"
Brad studied her for a long moment, studied the frankness in her eyes. “Just tell me you didn't,” he finally said.
"All right. I didn't. Anything else?"
"Why do you suppose Bliss thinks you did?"
Again the amused smile. “Edward is the sort of man who thinks women would kill for him. He was always quite impressed with himself."
"You must have been impressed, too. He was your lover."
"One of my lovers, Mr. Bradford,” she said without the slightest unease. She wet her lips. “Just one of them. And not even the best. Just the most convenient."
Brad sat back and wryly digested that. “I see. You didn't want to run away with him, then?"
"Heavens, no!"
"Or sue your husband for divorce?"
"Certainly not."
"Did you ever tell Bliss you wanted to do either? Or lead him to believe you would?"
"Never."
Brad shook his head. Bliss, you lying bastard.
"Who do you think killed your husband, Mrs. King?"
"I haven't the vaguest idea. Frankly, I didn't at first think that Edward had done it. Then, when that story about the Memphis killing came up, I didn't know what to believe."
"Did that change your mind about the possibility that Bliss might have done it?"
"Well, it certainly gave me pause for thought. But I'm still not sure. I don't want to think that Edward did it, but it's difficult for me to draw any other conclusion."
"What about the mistresses?"
Diane King shook her head. “If I know Lyle, they were just women he toyed with for his own amusement. He had this need for women he could dominate. He couldn't dominate me, you see. He had to have women he could impress. But I can't believe there would have been any emotional involvement with any of them of the sort that would lead to violence. Besides, Lyle was killed here on the estate. What would one of his mistresses have been doing here?"
"What about business associates? Did he have any business enemies?"
Again she shook her head. “On the contrary, he was extremely well liked, very popular. Honest as the day is long, in business, anyway. He was a community figure—served on the school board, the road commission, the city council."
No wonder Bliss was arrested and now convicted so quickly, Brad thought. He finished his coffee and rose. “Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. King.” He was about to offer condolences for her loss, but decided that would have been somewhat inappropriate.
"Not at all,” she replied graciously. “I hope I haven't given you the impression that I'm totally without conscience. I do regret that Lyle is dead, and I do regret that Edward is in so much trouble. But there's nothing I can do about either of them, is there?” She smiled, a rather nice smile this time. “And life does go on."
"It does that, Mrs. King,” Lon Bradford agreed.
This woman, he decided after he left, would not kill for any man.
* * * *
It was almost noon when Brad got back to town. He went directly to the library. A young library assistant at the desk told him that Miss Greer was downstairs in her workroom. Brad went down and tapped on the open door. Hannah looked up from her desk.
"Oh, hello. Come in. What can I do for the famous private detective today?"
"Famous, I'm not,” Brad said. “But hungry I am. May I take you to dinner?"
She gave him that tentative smile of hers. “I hadn't really planned to take a break today,” she said, and continued checking invoices and receipts, initialing them, spiking them on an old-fashioned spindle. “I'm afraid I've let my paperwork pile up—"
Brad glanced around the little workroom she had fashioned for herself, the little sanctuary from, he guessed, the lonely nights that were the curse of a small-town unmarried woman probably pushing forty. He stepped behind her chair and put a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Please,” he said. “Look, I just spent some time with Diane King and I need to work her out of my mind with someone like you."
Hannah paused in her work. “What does that mean, ‘someone like me'?"
"Someone appealing. And decent."
She looked up over her shoulder at him, an odd, almost puzzled expression on her face. “All right.” She put one more piece of paper on the spindle and stood up. “I know a nice little place out of town, on the river."
They drove several miles to a little cafe built partly on pilings out over the Yazoo River, and ordered fried catfish sandwiches and a pitcher of iced sun tea. Their table was next to an open wall, and the river slapped lightly against the pilings under them. In a nearby moss tree growing out of the water, a bluejay quarreled noisily and chased some wrens from their limb.
"How long have you been the county librarian?” Brad asked.
"About a hundred years,” Hannah replied wryly. “Seems like, anyway."
"You must love it."
"Must I?"
"Do I detect some dissatisfaction with life, Miss Greer?"
Hannah shrugged. “I suppose it's just life's rut. That limbo state of mind that most people sooner or later fall into. It's that state where our lives aren't good enough for us to be really happy, but not bad enough for us to make a drastic change. It's a neutral existence where most days are like most other days. There's no excitement, no challenge, nothing to make your blood rush. It's a life where you never sweat. You perspire, of course, but you don't sweat." Pausing, she looked down at the table for a moment, as if embarrassed. Then, to cover it, she asked, “What did you think of Diane King?"
Brad looked out at the greenish river water. “Shallow. Unhappy. A little lost, maybe. But she d
idn't kill her husband."
Hannah frowned. “Did you think that she had?"
"Edward Bliss says she did."
"Did you believe him?"
"I wasn't sure. I had to find out."
Their food came and they began to eat. Hannah studied Lon Bradford.
"You analyzed Diane King a moment ago,” she said. “Analyze me now."
"Analyze you?"
"Yes. You've already said that I was appealing. And decent. What else have you surmised, Mr. Private Detective?"
"Well, let's see,” Brad said thoughtfully. “You're probably a Temple town girl who went to the nearest college you could find, got your degree, then came back home to eventually run the local library. Your parents are probably dead, and I'd guess you live in the same house where you were born. You've never married, live alone, probably have two or three cats, and...” His words trailed off.
"Go on,” she said evenly, “finish it."
Brad remained silent.
"And I'm going to become the town spinster, right? I'm already a dried-up, nearly forty-year-old virgin, is that what you think?” A low fire began to show in her eyes. “Is it?"
Brad looked at her bare arms, at a bed of freckles just below her throat, at the full lower lip that sometimes gave her an artificial pout. He did not answer her.
"Well, let's see whether we're right or wrong, shall we? Let's see just how good a detective you are. Cocktails and supper tonight, at my house. Two hundred South Elm. As soon as it gets dark.” Her words were clearly provocative. And her already throaty voice had become huskier. Brad felt his spine grow warm.
"All right,” he agreed. “Cocktails and supper tonight. Your house. When it gets dark."
They finished lunch. Brad walked close to her on the way out. He caught a trace of fragrance from her.
"I like your perfume,” he said.
"It isn't perfume, it's bath oil, but it lingers. It's my favorite—jasmine."
The warmth Brad felt in his spine suddenly turned cold.
* * * *
Later that afternoon, Brad walked over to the courthouse and sat down on one of several very old public benches that were placed every few yards along the sidewalk that surrounded the building. Slouching down, hands shoved into his pockets, he stared out at nothing and thought about Hannah Greer. Hannah, with her sensuous arms and dusty freckles and almost raspy voice, who had stirred up old feelings in him: warm, liquid feelings, the kind he had frequently known as a much younger man, but had experienced less and less often as he matured and learned more about the underbelly of the world and those who peopled it.
Letting his chin slump down to his chest, Brad mused about how unpredictable life was. He had come to Yoakum County simply out of curiosity about the unusual letter he had received from Edward Bliss. Now he was about to become involved with a lady librarian. And there was no doubt in his mind that there would be an involvement. No doubt in hers, either, he was just as certain about that. When their eyes met over the table in that catfish cafe, they had communicated more in a split instant than some couples do in a lifetime. One fleeting moment and they had registered an intimacy of each other that cried out for fulfillment. A fulfillment that would be consummated that night in her home, her bed, her body.
And the fact that she used jasmine bath oil was nothing more than a coincidence.
Had to be.
After sitting on the bench for an hour, he went back to his room at the motor court to shower and clean up.
And wait until dark.
* * * *
At ten the next morning, Lon Bradford managed to sit up on the side of his motor-court bed. Eyes red and swollen, his head had a giant pulse in it, and his body felt as if an elevator had dropped on it. He was sure he would never be able to get into a kneeling position again.
It was the absinthe, he remembered. Hannah had prepared it using an absinthe spoon, which was slotted and fit over the top of her crystal absinthe tumblers. Already in the tumblers was a quantity of the green herbal liqueur made from anise, fennel, hyssop, angelica, and the sometimes, in too much quantity, deadly wormwood. It was powerful stuff—"One hundred thirty-six proof,” Hannah had said, smiling. “Think you can handle that, Mr. Bradford?"
"Call me Brad,” he replied. “And I can handle anything that pours."
He had watched as she put a cube of sugar onto the slotted spoon and slowly dribbled ice water over it until it dissolved and turned the absinthe into a milky greenish-white color.
"This is called louche," she had told him. “It means ‘clouding.’ First we cloud the absinthe, then we drink the absinthe to cloud our minds."
Hannah had served ordinary gin martinis before supper, then a 1939 St. Emilion Bordeaux with the succulent baby back ribs, white corn, and fried okra she had prepared for their meal. Dessert was homemade vanilla ice cream, hand-churned in a wooden bucket, topped with homemade peach preserves from a Mason jar. It was the best meal Brad had eaten since his own grandmother had died.
It was after supper that the absinthe was brought out.
All during the evening, Hannah had been wearing a flowing Oriental gown of some kind, exotically flowered in greens, golds, and reds. It was obvious when she moved that there was nothing underneath. And during the entire evening, she was barefooted. “I love the feeling of these old wooden floors,” she said. “The soles of my feet are very sensitive."
Slowly working his way to the bathroom, Brad ran a tub of hot water and soaked in it until he felt the stiffness melting out of his bones. While he soaked, he recalled Hannah Greer's bedroom. It was a vision in snowy white: walls, cornices, shades, drapes, lamps, even the hardwood floors, which were birch, were all pristine white. Her twelve-foot-square canopied Elizabethan bed had a carved headboard and posts which were all white, inlaid with small white tiles, hung with yards of unseamed white silk. The sheets were fine Egyptian cotton, the feather mattress tight cotton twill, the feather pillows—four of them—silk cased, all in white—everything white. It was like a dream...
Hannah's body, writhing, twisting, seeming to flow fluidly from position to position, under him, above him, all over him, those marvelous arms of hers entwining him...
All that had seemed like a dream, too. But it wasn't.
When Brad had convinced himself that he could stand upright, he groped around for his toothbrush and powder, used them for what seemed like a long time, then managed to hold his bone-handled straight razor steady enough to shave, cutting himself only three times in the process, sticking little dabs of toilet paper on each cut to stanch the blood.
He vigorously rubbed Vitalis into his hair, overcoming an insane temptation to taste it.
As he came out of the bathroom, he realized that he was beginning to feel good, trim and lean, back in control of his body. Resisting another “hair of the dog” temptation, he ignored the flask of whiskey in his grip satchel, threw yesterday's clothes on top of it, dressed in fresh garments, gave his shoes a couple of licks with the motor-court towel, and left the room to check out.
Feeling better every minute, he drove his yellow Studebaker Champion up to the jail and went in to see Edward Bliss.
"Did you find out anything?” Bliss asked eagerly when Brad sat down on the stool outside his cell.
"Yes, I did,” the detective said crisply. “But before I tell you anything, I want answers to a couple of questions. Do you have a wife anywhere? Kids anywhere?"
"No,” Bliss replied, puzzled.
"How about elderly parents that could use some support?"
"No, my folks are dead—"
"Brothers, sisters?"
"Well, I got one sister, Ella Mae, but I ain't seen her in ten years. She lives up north somewheres—Chicago, De-troit—I'm not sure where.” He looked away, self-consciously. “I don't have nothing to do with her. She married a Nigra."
"So there's nobody you need to help with the fifteen hundred dollars you've got left in the bank here?"
"No, nobody
. What the hell is this all about, anyway? You going to tell me what you found out or aren't you?"
"I am. First, write me a check for that fifteen hundred."
"All of it?"
"All of it."
Bliss wrote the check and slid it across the floor, where Brad retrieved it.
"All right,” Brad said. “I found out you've been telling me the truth. You didn't kill Lyle King."
"I knew it!” Bliss declared triumphantly. “I knew you'd find that out!” He slammed one fist into the palm of his other hand. “It was Diane, wasn't it?"
"No, Diane didn't do it, either."
The prisoner's exuberance dissolved into a frown. “Well, who the hell did do it, then?"
"I'm not sure,” Brad said.
"Not sure? How the hell is that going to get me out of here?"
"I'm afraid it isn't."
"Wait just a minute, now,” Bliss said, suddenly nervous. “They're getting ready to send me up to death row at Parchman. I'm facing the goddamn electric chair! For something I didn't do!"
"Well,” Brad said easily, “look at it this way, Bliss. Tell yourself that you'll be going to the chair for that killing up in Memphis. Tell yourself you're getting what's coming to you for murdering that poor Peabody Hotel desk clerk who was unlucky enough to be married to that little slut wife of his you were having so much fun with on the side. You're actually coming out even, Bliss."
Edward Bliss stared at Lon Bradford through the cell bars with a vacant expression. “Coming out even?"
"Yeah, Bliss. Dead even.” Brad folded the check and put it in his shirt pocket. “Goodbye, Bliss."
* * * *
After cashing the check and pocketing fifteen brand-new hundred-dollar bills, Brad drove over to the library. He again found Hannah Greer in her workroom. She looked up and smiled as he came in.
"Good morning, Brad,” she said cheerfully.
"Good morning."
Hannah stretched luxuriously. “Do you feel as wonderful as I do?"
"I feel pretty good,” Brad admitted.
"Shall we make plans for tonight?"
"No, I won't be here tonight. I'm going back to Memphis."
EQMM, December 2006 Page 5
