“Yeah. Really. Honest. I'll show you my driver's license. Look, would it help if I told you I just woke up recently? And I'm not at my best for a long time—"
She had interrupted me with delightful lilting laughter. Then she was saying, “Of course! Now I understand why you sounded so absolutely dingdong—"
“What do you mean, ding—?"
“I thought maybe I was the only one."
“You?"
“Me, too. I'm exactly the same way. I'm just awful until I have my coffee in the morning."
“That's ... that's beautiful."
“I'm grouchy, and stupid, and even mean."
“No, Not you. I'll bet you don't have a mean bone in your body ... do you?"
I'd started getting carried away there for a moment. Almost forgot women were all over the place, trying to trick me. And right then this one confirmed my suspicions by saying, “I'm calling in response to your Times ad, the one in the Personal Messages."
“Ah, that little dandy. Sure. Winners are arriving from all points of the compass. We may have to stop them at the borders."
Either my comment didn't impress her or she chose to ignore it. “I think I'm the woman you're trying to reach, Mr. Scott."
“Sure. You'll be number ... Let's see, number one hundred and twenty-three, plus the calls last night and maybe this morning."
“I don't understand.” I didn't comment, and she continued, “Anyway, everything seems to fit me, the name, the birth date—"
“What is your name, Miss?"
“Michelle Wallace."
“You got the Michelle right. And what's your mother's maiden name?"
“Oh ... golly."
While she, presumably, was cleverly trying to remember a name she'd never before heard in her life, I sighed, and was beginning to wonder, once again, how there could be so much more deception, dishonesty, greed, and plain old crookedness around than even I had suspected, when the lady at the other end of the line said:
“Montapert."
“What?"
“Golly, I feel so dumb. I just told the nice lady that name, then I went and forgot it again. That is pretty dumb, isn't it? But I hadn't heard it in so long I just drew a blank again. But that's it, my mother was Nicole Elaine Montapert. She's Mrs. Steuben now, though."
“Steuben."
That's what I said, but I wasn't paying much attention to what I was saying. This, for the first time, was the correct name, and hearing it jarred me almost as much as had listening to sour Miss Mort here yesterday.
“That's pretty good,” I said. “You're right."
“Of course I'm right. I simply couldn't remember for a moment."
“Well, maybe ... You know, you could be the one."
“I'm sure I am, Mr. Scott. I mean, I think I'm the Michelle you want—at least, I'm Spree."
Maybe it was because I'd just been thinking of the unpleasant lady who so greatly prized her bra and pants, but the word, and this Michelle's statement, didn't bowl me over the way it should have.
I said, “Spree? From what? I mean, what name?"
“It's from Esprit. My middle name. I'm Michelle Esprit Wallace. Originally, it was Romanelle. That's my father's name. And, Mr. Scott, tell me something, will you?"
“Sure."
“Is it my father—Mr. Romanelle—who wants to give me all that money, or fortune, or whatever it is? If it is, I'm not at all sure I want it."
“I'll be damned,” I said. After a few moments I went on, “I don't think the rest of this should be on the phone. At least you've convinced me we should meet."
“All right."
“Where are you now?"
“I'm phoning from my car. And I'm almost to Beverly now, Mr. Scott, on my way to Hollywood. I could stop by your apartment, if you'd like. It's number two-twelve, isn't it?"
“That's right. OK, meeting here makes it simple...” Then the comment stuck me a little. “Incidentally, a number of ladies have already discovered I live here at the Spartan. But, if you don't mind, how did you find out?"
“Your secretary told me. When I called your office number."
“Hazel? Well, she's not actually my—you talked to her?"
“Uh-huh. Just before I phoned you. She gave me your apartment number, and suggested I call you at home."
Hazel must have been favorably impressed, I thought. “What did you tell her?"
“Just what I've told you, Mr. Scott. That's why it was so dumb not to remember my mother's maiden name for a minute. I'd just got through telling your secretary. Or this Hazel. She was awfully nice."
So far, everything fit like a fat hand in a thin glove. Still, there was something else I'd wanted to ask Miss Wallace. Couldn't pin it down at that moment.
“Now I understand what she meant,” my caller went on. “This—Hazel, after suggesting I phone, told me if you sounded like Dracula at noon I wasn't to pay any attention. Just to keep telling you the same thing over and over."
“She said that, did she? Hazel's a dear girl."
“I didn't understand what she meant at all. Not then. It was just a big mystery."
“Then? I suppose that means you're crammed with sweet understanding now?"
“Oh, sure. Oh! She asked me to tell you something else. Hazel did."
“Wonderful. I'm on pins and needles."
“It was a message from her to you. I wrote it down.” She was silent a few moments, then, “Woops—I'll probably almost get another ticket before I find it."
That puzzled me. So while she was looking for whatever fun thing she'd written down, I asked, “Almost? How do you almost get tickets? Mine are never in doubt."
“Oh, they never give me tickets. They just stop me and talk a little, then smile and laugh and tell me not to do it again."
“They smile and what? You're not talking about cops. Traffic cops?"
“Yes. Those nice young men on their big bikes."
I completely failed to comprehend what she was telling me. Cops love to give tickets. Give them a choice between winning a cruise to Bermuda and giving you—or at least me—a ticket, and they'll never see Bermuda.
“Here it is,” she said. “It's a question. Quote, You couldn't find any diamonds? unquote. Is that another case you're working on, Mr. Scott?"
“Apparently it is. And I think it's going to be a tough one."
“Well, let's see ... I should be there in ten or fifteen minutes. All right?"
“Fine. See you here in a few minutes, then."
We hung up. I tried to sort out what she'd told me or maybe hadn't told me. But then Kay rose to her feet holding the black bag in one hand, jacket draped over her arm. There was a gold-monogrammed “KD” on the bag's flap; and I could see, inside the jacket's collar, a small label that said “Goldwater's."
Then Kay was saying, “I've got to run, Shell. But I'd love to talk to you later, when you're fully recovered."
I stood up. “I was hoping to take you to lunch. Especially since we missed dinner last night."
She smiled. “I didn't miss it at all. And there'll be other nights. For dinner, I mean."
“I hope so, Kay. But, as for lunch, I may be busy the rest of the day."
She nodded. “I know. I was listening to your conversation. It sounds as if you've found your mysterious missing lady."
“It's possible. Might also be another Miss Mort, though. But I should know before the day's out. Maybe by this time tomorrow, you can hire a full-time detective. Cheap."
She smiled again, her lips parting, and for a moment it appeared that each lip was smiling at the other one. Or maybe gently waving, but not waving good-bye. That might sound not only impossible but almost unattractive. Believe me, they not only did it but it was more exciting than watching two little lady mud wrestlers.
“I was just thinking,” Kay said, after she got control of her mouth, “about my invisible photographer. The one you're going to catch and beat up for me."
“Yeah, I'll wrestl
e him to death. No, I'll break his leg. No—"
“Wouldn't it be funny if you were right, Shell, and he's got this crazy high-tech camera with calibrated dials and longitudes and all? What's the latitude and longitude of your apartment here?"
“This may astound you, but nobody ever asked me that question before. What diff—ahk, mamma mia! Why, that bastard! He could be out there dialing and fiddling, and yelling ‘Gotcha! Gotcha!’ Oh, I'd hate to think I could never again..."
I stopped, and scowled at her. “Kay, that was cruel. For a minute, or half a horrible second, you almost had me believing—"
She had stepped close to me, and stopped my words with her lips. Just a quick light kiss, much like that first filled-with-promise pressure she'd bestowed on me two nights ago in Pete's.
Then she turned quickly, walked to the front door, glanced back and spoke a silent paragraph or two, or three, with those encyclopedic lips, and was gone, the door closing gently behind her.
Chapter Six
Less than five minutes later my front-door chimes went cling-clong and I took a last look around the living room.
It was presentable. Looked lived in, but there were no olives or peppers on the coffee table or carpet.
Besides tidying up a bit I had done a little thinking in advance of my caller's arrival. The question I'd forgotten to pursue on the phone was if, just possibly, my caller might happen to be acquainted, even well acquainted, with a dumpy lady named Mrs. Mort. Wouldn't necessarily prove anything if she did, of course, but it was a question I intended to ask.
Ask quickly. Because, if my half-formed suspicions were correct, I could still take Kay Denver to lunch, and embark upon her interesting case just as soon as I got this little meeting over with.
So, having nearly convinced myself that I was moments from meeting a Miss Mort clone, I pulled the door open and said, “Come on in, and let's get this o—o—o—"
“Mr. Scott? Hi, I'm Spree."
It was the same sweet-soft voice with strange music in it, but this was no clone, not of anyone I'd ever seen. I didn't say anything. I just stared. Silently stared.
People who know me are well aware that I am almost never at a loss for words. Not a complete loss, anyway. What comes out may not be the right word or phrase, but something will come out.
Not this time.
There before me was what appeared to be a rather large blond woman about five and a half feet tall, young, wearing something oddly striped and quite shapeless, almost like a hoodless parka, or the loose and baggy serapes Mexican farmers wear in the rain. It was made of rough nubby cloth, with alternating blue and beige vertical stripes, and came down to about six inches above the lady's knees. Beneath it was a pale blue skirt, open-toed high-heeled blue shoes, and very neat and trim-looking ankles and shapely calves. Which might have surprised me considerably if I'd pursued the thought at that moment, which I didn't, because the rest of the torso seemed to be quite large, even fat.
But all of that was only partially absorbed, and only with a kind of peripheral vision and attention, because what I was staring at was, without question, the most beautiful face I had ever seen.
It was ravishing, heart-stopping, angelic. And that smile—gentle, bright, warm, more than warm, both soothing and blood-boiling, a blend of sweetness and sauciness and natural-as-breathing sexiness that was down-to-earth but at the same time something else, something more in sensual harmony with sunbeams and moonglow, space winds and starshine, than with earth and its lovely earthiness that a man sees every day.
The lips were full, softly curving over white, even teeth. Or almost even. A little, very little, crookedness on the right there, the incisor on the left just a trifle too short. Plus arcs of new-moon-shaped dimples at the corners of her mouth, like parentheses enclosing and caressing her smile. Her eyes were green. But “green” doesn't say it at all. They were large, seeming almost huge at the moment, almost glowing as I looked at her, great green eyes almost the color of certain fine old Chinese jades, or of molten emeralds, or that one four-leaf clover that makes the genie appear. Maybe that glowing aliveness in her eyes was most like the ephemeral green you can see, moments after the rain stops falling, right in the center of a rainbow.
Hell, I don't know why that face was so beautiful. It just was. Sure, there are hundreds, thousands, of truly beautiful faces. Just as there are thousands of magnificent sunsets. So how do you describe one gorgeous sunset in a way that will set it apart from all the rest? How can I describe that face so you can see it, feel the softness and sweetness and rare loveliness of cheek and brow and curve of lip, firm flesh, glowing skin, the magic in curve and plane and arc and line? Can't do it. No way.
You can take apart a fine watch and count and catalog every bit of it except the tick, because by then it won't be ticking. So I guess what finally made that face of Spree's so indescribably beautiful was some kind of Spreeness that made it tick, and kept it ticking. Maybe it was the brightness of an inner spirit that glowed from those great green eyes, maybe the warmth of a true and gentle heart, or a special fire in the blood. Who knows? Who knows what beauty is? Or Beauty?
Just say she was gorgeous. Say she was rare. Say she almost stopped my heart and stole my breath. But that still wouldn't say it. Forget it. All I know is that something different, something new, happened to me, came to me, when I saw that face. And it never went away.
I'm not sure how long I stood there like a dummy. But she waited, silently, however long it was. That smile of hers didn't dim, or diminish, or go away. If anything, it might have gotten a little wider, perhaps a little brighter. So, even then, in some part of me, I knew she'd been here before, observed the effect her beauty had on men, waited for them to get their tongues untangled or their eyes back in focus, or perform artificial respiration on themselves until the emergency was over.
Undoubtedly, then, she knew not only that she was beautiful but just how beautiful. That's dangerous knowledge. I hoped it hadn't ruined her. On second thought, I didn't care a whole bunch if it had. I'd save her. I'd talk some sense into her pretty head, read magazines and maybe even whole books to her, help her to understand that there was more to a woman than—boy, she was gorgeous.
By the time I'd mentally saved her from the dangerous awareness that was ruining her life, and we were having Nui-Nuis on the beach at Bora-Bora, I was back to normal. Well, almost.
I took a long deep breath, and I guess she recognized the symptoms of my ghost returning to its body, or whatever had happened. Because she spoke then, finally.
“May I come in?"
“You'd better,” I said. “I'd kick myself around the block if you didn't."
She came inside. I shut the door, then said to her, “Please, just stand there until I get back. OK? Won't be a minute."
“All right."
I zipped into the bathroom, shut the door, ran cold water in the basin and splashed some on my face, rubbed the chops dry with a towel. Then I looked at myself in the mirror, raised and lowered my eyebrows, stuck out my tongue and hauled it back in. Everything worked. So I banged myself on the chest a couple of times, and went back.
I walked over next to the young lady, Michelle Wallace, presumably—and I hoped—born Michelle Esprit Romanelle, stopped, looked down at her upturned face, and said, “I wouldn't give you any tickets, either."
She laughed. Abruptly, spontaneously, a brief but very merry outpouring of what impressed me as genuine pleasure, almost like the uninhibited delight you can hear, and see, when a child cracks up in glee and rolls on the grass.
I grinned down at her still-smiling face. “I didn't know it was that good,” I said.
She laughed a little again—much less than before—and said, “Pretty good, Mr. Scott, but some of that was relief. I mean, after the way you sounded at first, on the phone."
“Yeah. Well, I wasn't quite awake then—sure am now, though. And I assumed it was someone else calling."
“I know. But I was still af
raid I might be coming up to see somebody who'd look like, oh, Igor. You remember, in the Frankenstein movie?"
“Sure do. And I hope you aren't telling me you're disappointed.” I squatted a little, crooked an arm ending in clawlike fingers, and said hoarsely, “Come wizz me, missy? See master bolt new head on Dummy?” Then I straightened up, scowling. “Sorry. You probably make a lot of guys take deep breaths and suck in their stomachs till their faces get purple. I'll try not to act like an idiot again."
“I'm just glad you turned out to be so nice. And attractive."
“Me? Nice?” I started to smile, but made a strenuous effort to keep it from showing. Might make me seem conceited. “And attractive?"
“Well, more”—she started laughing softly again—“more attractive than Igor."
“Ah ... swell. Thanks a bunch. Well, will you”—I extended an arm, no spastic fingers this time, toward my chocolate-brown divan—“join the nice man on the nice couch?"
She walked over to it, sat on one end. I went around the coffee table, seated myself at the other end next to the little table with my phone on it.
In two or three minutes we'd gone over all the “evidence” of Michelle Esprit Romanelle's identity that had been mentioned on the phone, plus other items about her childhood days, her father's leaving when she was six years old, mostly odds and ends I was already familiar with. She was easy to talk to, bright and articulate, and there was, so far as I could tell, not the least indication of deception. If she wasn't the real Michelle Romanelle Wallace, she was good enough to convince me.
Then she said, “Shell”—it was Shell and Spree by this time—“it was my father who hired you to locate me, wasn't it? Claude Romanelle?"
I nodded. “I talked to him on the phone day before yesterday, Monday. He had an attorney draw up papers transferring quite a valuable hunk of his estate into joint ownership with you. Mr. Romanelle has already signed them. My job was to find his daughter, make certain she wasn't an impostor, then deliver her—you—to that same attorney's office for your signature."
“You mentioned something on the phone about impostors. Or at least that I was ... number a hundred and something? What was that about?"
Shellshock (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 9
