She smiled. Spree was still holding her bazooka, or bazoom, or whatever it was, up in the air, prominent nipple and part of large pink areola visible between index finger and middle finger. Or, I thought—as the sound of her father's voice flashed before my eyes, assuming such a phenomenon is possible—middle and trigger finger. Idly, I wondered if Spree's left hand, and arm and shoulder, maybe her whole left side, was getting tired.
“Well, why don't you take a good look at it,” she said, “and compare it, or whatever you have to do to make sure. And then I can get dressed."
“Don't mind if I do."
I did. As best I could, I pushed Claude Romanelle out of my ears, and also little six-year-old Spree out of my mind, and intently scrutinized the biggest clue I'd come across in this case so far. Yes, it was reasonable to call the thing a butterfly, if one assumed it had been played with by a lazy cat and then hit with a large load of pesticide.
I said, “He's come a long way from his wee cocoon, hasn't the little bugger? Grew from just a little fly sp—ahhg ... a little baby butterfly to this monster—ahhg ... this lovely winged birdie. Next step should be, I guess, to compare him with his baby picture. If I can remember where I..."
“Yes,” Spree said. “The photo of me that you got from Daddy."
“Could you call him Mr. Romanelle? Or Claude?"
“Why don't you go get that photograph, Shell? That will be the final proof, won't it? And ... well, my arm is getting a little tired."
“Figures. OK. If I can just remember where..."
In my bathroom, in the tiled wall of my combination tub and shower, there is a loose tile behind which I sometimes hide thin things. Thin, so they'll fit behind the tile. Like photographs, papers, and thousand-dollar bills if I had any. That's where I had put the old snap of young Michelle Romanelle. I recalled seeing it there when I'd stuck the photos of Kay Denver behind the tile.
Yeah, Kay. I shook my head. My life was either getting completely disorganized or wonderfully organized in a totally incomprehensible way.
Also, something else was bothering me. I had never looked at that photo of six-year-old Spree through a magnifying glass. So all I'd really observed on her youthful chest was a spot. A kind of blot with curlicues. Could have been a little piece of mud. Certainly not anything fascinating like a tired butterfly crawling up over the Andes. Only when I could magnify and study without prejudice that blot on little baby Spree could I ever be sure it was the same baby insect I'd just been getting inordinately attached to the adult of.
That didn't sound exactly right in my head, but I continued thinking furiously. I really wanted to be sure. That is, I very much wanted this lovely, this gorgeous, this astonishingly contoured and convoluted woman to be Spree. The real one, wee Michelle Esprit Romanelle twenty years later. But—and this was the truly crunching thought—what if the blot and the butterfly failed to match? What if the little blot was just a little blot? Why, that would mean Spree was an impostor. And I'd have to put her in jail. And I wouldn't do it.
“Jail?” Spree said. “What's this about jail?"
I looked at her wonderingly. “How did you do that? You read my thoughts, didn't you? Hoo, I hope you didn't read ‘em all—"
“You were mumbling something. I thought you were talking to me."
“No. No, I wasn't. You mean I was actually mumbling? Mumbling aloud?"
“There's another way?"
“Spree, this is serious."
“Yes, you were. But very softly. It sounded like ‘jail’ and ‘wooden doot.’”
“Hoo. That's what it was, then. Thank goodness. I'm glad you can't read minds, Spree. That could ruin me. That could ruin anybody."
“Were you going to get that picture, Shell? My arm—"
By then I was gone. I zipped into my bedroom, yanked open a drawer, found my big umpteen-power magnifying glass, then zipped into the bathroom. I stepped into the tub so fast I slipped, but I didn't go down, just clattered around a bit and clunked my head slightly on the shower nozzle.
I pried out the tile before my secret hiding place, grabbed the photo of Spree in its transparent plastic folder. I couldn't wait until I got back into the front room. So I slipped the protective envelope off and dropped it, then held the snapshot under my magnifying glass, focused, got the view sharp. And —
Chapter Seven
Eureka? No doubt about it! It was the same butterfly!
Well, almost. The upper wing was much larger now, due to the obvious fact that in the ensuing twenty years the part of Spree on which that upper wing rested had grown much more than the other parts of Spree. Other parts of almost anybody. But, taking that into consideration, the two were essentially identical. I really felt good about it. I felt so good I kicked the side of the tub a couple of times. Then I jumped out and zipped into the living room.
“Eureka!” I cried, thumping over the yellow-gold carpet to stop next to lovely, slim-enough but super-shapely, gorgeous, voluptuous, angelic, heart-stopping Michelle Esprit Romanelle, vital-evidence snapshot in my left hand, big thick magnifying glass in my right hand. “Eureka!"
“Eureka?” Spree echoed. “What does that mean?"
“It means I found your picture."
“What was all that clattering and banging?"
“Oh, that was me in the bathtub."
“In ... the bathtub?” It appeared for a moment as if she might be going to pursue that angle a little further. But then she smiled. “Oh, I see. Isn't that what Archimedes said when he jumped out of the tub?"
“I found your picture?"
“No—Eureka."
“Beats the hell out of me,” I said. “No matter. Spree, I've got the proof that you're Spree. Right here."
I lifted the picture and held it toward her.
But then I thought: Gah-damn! Left hand is the picture.
In my natural excitement, I had raised my right hand. In it, of course, I was holding my umpteen-power magnifying glass. I was holding it by the round black handle, and the glass part itself—maybe eight inches in diameter—was almost touching Spree, actually about an inch from her —
“Shell!” she cried, looking down at it. “I don't believe this!"
“Well, hell, I don't believe it, either."
She started to say something else, those great green eyes getting even greater and wider, but I silenced her by saying, “Wrong hand. This is what I meant to show you—this is what we'll look at through my magnifying glass."
Her gaze fell on the faded old snapshot which I'd lifted up before her face, and she understood all, immediately. The expression of something approximating curdled alarm faded from her eyes and her face.
And then she sort of squealed happily.
“That picture!” she squealed, reaching for it. “Oh, Shell, I haven't seen that photograph in twenty years, but I still remember it. I was at the Riverview public swimming pool and..."
Some more came after that. Quite a lot, in fact. But I missed it all. Because Spree, in her delighted preoccupation with that old photo, had taken it into her hands in order to examine it closely. This meant that she forgot not only to hold in place the right half of her pale blue brassiere but also to continue clutching and at least partially concealing her left breast, the one with the butterfly sort of underneath it, since she was using both hands to hang on to that little picture.
She continued chattering happily for a while. Difficult to say just how long. But then, suddenly. Spree became aware of what had happened when she reached so enthusiastically for the snapshot, what had happened to her and therefore to me, and with a quick movement she crossed both arms over those big bare breasts, and looked up at me from eyes that appeared enormous.
“Oh-oh,” she said, mouth as round as her eyes. “I guess ... the damage is already done."
“I guess,” I said.
“I just wasn't thinking. I'm sorry."
“I'm not."
We looked at each other in silence then. I took a step clos
er, sat next to her on the divan. I looked at that extraordinarily beautiful face of Spree's, drank it in with my eyes, letting them linger on arched brow and thick pale lashes, smooth cheek, soft sweet curve of lip. That face grew larger as I leaned toward her. Her green eyes were enormous. Slowly the lids drooped, her eyes half closed, and her lips parted as her head tilted to one side. Then her lips and tongue were melting against mine. Her arms went around my neck and pulled gently, with a slow pulsing pressure. I felt those magnificent bare breasts warm and yielding under my hands, and then against my lips.
The pressure of soft arms around my neck was gone. It took a moment for me to realize that Spree had her hands pressed against my chest and was pushing, pushing me away.
I looked at her and she said “No” silently, only the movement of her lips, without sound. Then, very softly, but audibly, “No, Shell,” shaking her head.
I took a deep breath but stilt had trouble with my voice. “That didn't sound like yes,” I said finally.
“It wasn't."
“I got a little carried away,” I said. “Maybe more than a little. I hope you're not—"
“I'm not. Shell. At least, I'm not angry. This was more my fault than yours. All my fault, really. But, Shell, if we're going to ... get that involved, shouldn't we know each other more than an hour?"
I tried to keep it light. “Sure. Why don't you”—I glanced at my watch—“wake me up in twenty minutes?"
She smiled. We both did. But it was over.
Not the memory, though, other soft mouth on mine, my hands on her warm breasts, her arms around my neck; no, that wasn't over.
* * * *
At 9:30 a.m. I dialed Claude Romanelle's number at his home in Paradise Valley.
Spree was going to accompany me to Arizona. She still wasn't certain she would sign those papers Worthington was holding in his office, but she had agreed to go at least that far and find out what was involved. Also, she did want to meet her father again, after these many years.
Spree and I were in the same places on my chocolate-brown divan where we'd been when this thing started, me way to the left near the phone. Spree over on the right. Every time I looked at her she smiled, and every time she smiled I could feel something like hot iron filings spinning in my blood, or the faint gnawing of ancient hungers, or at least something strange and unique and very nice, and Spree smiled a lot.
“Hello?” That voice in my ear again. But it sounded hoarser, rougher.
“Mr. Romanelle?” I said.
“Right. Claude Romanelle."
“Shell Scott here."
“Mr. Scott! I've been waiting to hear—have you found my daughter? Have you found little Spree?"
“I've found big Spree, Mr. Romanelle. You'll really have to get accustomed to—"
“Where are you? Where is she? Is she all right?"
“Of course she's all right. At this very moment, your daughter and I are together in my—” I stopped. Mentioning my apartment might not be too wise. “In Hollywood,” I continued. “Everything's fine, under control, and we'll be in Arizona some time tonight."
“That's wonderful. Good work, good work, Mr. Scott. Worthington did not exaggerate your abilities. What's your flight, when will you be arriving? I'll have someone meet you—"
“Slow down, will you? I don't even know yet when we'll be leaving. Couple of things to take care of here first. Besides, I don't want anybody meeting us. When we land in Phoenix, we'll take care of first things first, as instructed, then I'll bring Spree to your home. OK?"
“First things? What first things?"
That response rubbed me the wrong way. In fact, I started to get a little prickly sensation on the hairs at the back of my neck. I said slowly, “You're supposed to be the guy who laid down the rules, Romanelle. Is this Claude Romanelle? You sound different—"
“Of course I'm me, you idiot! You mean Worthington. Yes, see him first, naturally. But hurry. I'm ... anxious. Even a little nervous. Twenty years—"
He broke off with a kind of whooping cough or snort, followed by fainter sounds of more coughing, and what I guessed was Romanelle blowing his nose with a combination honking and flapping technique.
“Excuse me, Mr. Scott,” he said after a few seconds, his voice even more hoarse and husky than before.
“Cold worse?” I asked, those earlier suspicions undiminished.
“No, of course not,” he bellowed in a distorted gargle, “it is gone, gone forever. In order to eliminate my cough entirely, the passionate doctors who cured me of it removed fourteen pieces of mestatasized cancer from my gut and transplanted it into my lungs. In medical circles, this is referred to as ‘curing the common cold’ by injections of carcipneumonia.” He honked and hacked for a few moments more, then said, “Therefore, I must be perfectly well by now. Does that answer your question, Mr. Scott?"
“Sure does,” I said, grinning. That sounded more like the acerbic and overactive mouth of my client. Also typical of Romanelle, he wasn't through yet.
“In their desire to inoculate me against every malady known to medical science,” he continued, “my dedicated docs instructed the cleaning lady to sweep up all the bugs from the floors of Intensive Care. Then they drowned the little bastards in sterile distilled water and squirted their corpses up my—"
Basically what he said was that they'd given him an enema with it. I shook my head. This guy was weird. But also bright, clearly a very intelligent man, even though—perhaps—still somewhat crooked. Right then something started to form in my brain, as if scattered thoughts were being pulled together into a critical mass, but the something dissolved, disappeared.
I said, “Glad you're feeling better. We'll see you tonight sometime."
“Excellent. I'll have a bonus waiting for you, Mr. Scott. Five thousand dollars. Sound all right?"
“Sounds fine."
I thanked him, and we hung up.
I looked at Spree, enjoyed her smile, then dialed the Dorchester Arms. I would be out of town for at least a day, maybe longer, and felt a certain obligation to let Kay know that, and tell her I'd be in touch upon my return.
I asked the Dorchester's desk clerk to connect me with Miss Kay Denver's suite, and Spree asked me, “Who are you calling now. Shell?"
“Could be another client. Not yet, but soon—I think. Just want to take care of this before we leave."
Then the desk clerk was saying, “Miss Denver has checked out, sir."
“She—what? Checked out? When?"
“One moment, please. At eight fifty-five a.m. About half an hour ago."
“Could you tell me ... Never mind. Thanks."
I hung up, wondering what the hell, then said to Spree, “I'm going to call and make reservations for our flight. But before we drive to the airport, do you mind if we make a quick stop? I'd like to check something at the Dorchester."
“I don't mind. Kay Denver?"
I blinked. “Yes. Do you know her?"
She shook her head, yellow-gold hair shimmering like corn silk. “I heard you mention the name just now, that's all.” Spree was silent for a few moments, head cocked to one side. Then she said, “This may be woman's intuition gone totally askew. But would she perhaps be a very beautiful young woman? Dark, black hair, good figure. Really quite eye-catching—especially dressed in a lovely black suit just right for evening, but not for early in the morning."
I was completely out of whatever was going on here. “Dressed ... how? Well, that's pretty close,” I said. “But how the hell—"
“I was simply describing a lovely woman who was in the lobby when I got here this morning,"
“In the lobby? But that was five or ten minutes after she left...” Oh-oh, I thought. Blew it that time. I suppose I could have gone on and said rapidly, “after she left having dropped in for a jiffy on her way to work at the cookie factory” and so forth. But, no, that wouldn't have been true. Also, it wouldn't have worked. Also, my mind went blank.
Spree continued,
just as if the San Andreas Fault had not opened up directly beneath me, “I noticed her only because she was looking at me so intently. That's when I saw how beautiful she was—and the strange way she was dressed for early morning."
“Strange. Morning. Uh-huh."
“I've had jealous women stare at me the way she did. But that couldn't have been why. She'd probably never seen me before. Certainly I'd never seen her. Isn't that odd. Shell?"
“Odd. Yes. Tell me, where was this strange lady when you came in and saw her? Hanging from a great sticky web on the ceiling?"
“No, of course not.” Spree laughed lightly. It was very light. I could hardly hear it. “She was sitting on one of the couches in the lobby."
“Excuse me a minute. Be right back."
Downstairs I spoke to Eddy, the day man. “Earlier this morning, a lovely young blond woman came here to see me. On business. When she arrived, a little before eight-thirty, another young lady was sitting here in the lobby. Right?"
He nodded, pointing toward a corner couch. “She came downstairs,” he said, “made a phone call, then sat there. After the pretty blonde came in, I don't know what the other one did. I had to fix Mrs. Murchison's TV right then."
“She made a phone call? You're sure?"
“Sure I'm sure. Used the pay phone there.” He indicated one of the two pay phones in the lobby.
“Did you notice if it was a local call or long-distance?"
“I think she put a bunch of quarters in."
“And you don't know when she left?"
“Nope. Only that I took maybe fifteen minutes to fix the TV—Mrs. Murchison won't leave those little knobs alone, no matter how many times I tell the old bat—"
“Was the woman still in the lobby when you got back?"
“Nope. Gone by then."
“What time would she have been making that call?"
“I came on at eight. It was maybe ten, fifteen minutes after that. Call it a quarter after eight."
“OK. Thanks, Eddy."
Spree had arrived at 8:20 a.m. So if Eddy's estimate was dose, Kay had waited here in the lobby for several minutes. Why?
Shellshock (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 11
