I considered Weasel for a moment, wondering what kind of dog he’d be. I finally concluded that Weasel most resembled a whippet crossed with a cocker spaniel. While looking more whippetlike—in a pressed rat sort of way, his personality was pure cocker. He embodied unbridled enthusiasm.
I felt a pang of uneasiness which made me take Paint Bucket aside and point out the potential hazard of his temporary assignment.
“Bucket, I want you to know that people are looking for your patient. I don’t know why but they appear to be after her and, well, this could be a risky deal. I’ll understand if you and Weasel…”
Paint Bucket stopped me right there. “Stella, we ain’t doin’ this just for the money. We all grew up together. It’s a brotherhood. I’m doin’ it for the good of all that’s right and decent in Glenn Ford, so don’t go talking to me about risk. We’re not chickens.”
I half expected to see him giving another one of his Boy Scout salutes or offering to exchange a secret handshake, but instead he turned to Weasel.
“Hey, idiot!” he called. “Let’s go!”
Weasel, still blindfolded, turned and walked straight into Aunt Lucy’s table. Paint Bucket responded with a string of imaginative curses and a yank on Weasel’s arm to pull him up beside him.
“Okay, wrap me up and take us off,” he said.
I blindfolded Paint Bucket, and was about to lead the two men out to my car when I heard the unmistakable clomping sound of Sylvia Talluchi’s sensible shoes coming up the basement steps.
“Oh, hell,” I muttered. “This is a big waste of time. They’re going to find out about the basement lab, anyway.” I put a hand on each man’s shoulder, stopping them at the edge of the kitchen and said, “Guys, in a moment I am going to take off your blindfolds and introduce you to your new commander, but before I do, I need your solemn vow that you will never, ever reveal any detail, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, of what you are about to see or of whom you meet while on this case. Is it a deal?”
Paint Bucket and Weasel both stiffened to attention and simultaneously lifted their left hands high, their fingers folded down identically, and said, “We promise, on our honor, to do our duty to God and our country…” Their voices fell off here as they failed to remember the rest of the oath, and I interrupted.
“Good enough, gentlemen.” I pulled off the blindfolds and left them standing in front of Sylvia Talluchi.
Weasel shrieked. “Who are you?” he gasped.
Sylvia, equally appalled, eyed him with a malevolent glare and said nothing.
Paint Bucket hopped right into the fray. He saluted Sylvia and poked Weasel in the ribs until he, too, saluted, then said, “McMasters and Steinbolt, reporting for duty, ma’am!”
This seemed to significantly mollify Mrs. Talluchi, and without further ceremony, I led the little troupe downstairs to Aunt Lucy’s secret laboratory. The arrival of the two men absolutely fascinated Baby Blankenship. She took in the knotted bandannas around their necks, clapped her hands and gazed rapturously at them.
“I love Westerns,” she said, sighing.
I left, considering my work below ground done for the day. It was time to move on to the next phase of the current operation. It was time to figure out what had happened to Bitsy Blankenship.
Halfway up the basement steps, the emergency red light Aunt Lucy keeps tied to her government-installed security system began to flash. The door opened at the top of the steps and Aunt Lucy stood looking down at me, a worried expression on her face.
“We’ve got two bogies at high noon,” she said cryptically.
“Ringing the doorbell?”
Aunt Lucy nodded. “Suits, crewcuts, badges and bulges.”
“Local?”
“I’d say federal.”
I reached her side and walked with her to the monitor. Two men I’d never seen before stood on Aunt Lucy’s front stoop. They didn’t appear to be thinking about leaving, so I supposed they must’ve had the house under surveillance long enough to know we were inside. The thing that pissed me off was that I hadn’t spotted them.
“Where’s Jake?” I asked.
“Here.”
Jake had entered the room so quietly neither one of us had heard him. He crossed the room, handed me my Glock in its pancake holster and bent to slip a small Walther into the leather holster strapped to his ankle.
“Nervous?” I asked.
“Nah,” he muttered. “Just packing an ounce of prevention.”
As we walked toward the front door, leaving Aunt Lucy to monitor things from the security system in the kitchen, I studied the tense set to Jake’s shoulders, wondering what he knew that I didn’t.
“Shelia tell you anything new?” I whispered.
He shook his head. “She’s looking into it.”
The way he said looking into it, made me nervous. Jake sounded skeptical.
When we reached the door, I took a deep breath and tried to mentally prepare myself.
“I want the tall guy on the left,” I said, smiling at Jake. “I think he’s my type.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “Getting restless so soon, my pet?”
“See, that’s just it. Sleep with a guy a few times and he’s looking to buy you a scratching post and a leash. I’m not your pet!”
I swung the door open, still smiling and looked into the cold, deadpan faces of the two men on the front stoop.
“Let’s see,” I said. “Mormons or Fuller Brush salesmen?”
The tall guy on the left let the bottom of his plastic badge cover fall open. “FBI,” he said. “We’d like to talk to you, Ms. Valocchi.”
“Oooh, I love it when a guy calls out my name,” I said. “You feds are soooo psychic!” Only I didn’t believe for a minute that the two men were FBI. They didn’t quite have the clean-cut, in-your-face attitude of a true Fibby. No, these two guys were more accustomed to skulking around in the dark, if you asked me.
“Let’s see some ID gentlemen,” Jake said.
While the two held their badges out for his inspection, I studied them. The tall guy had red hair and a smattering of freckles, a lean, muscular build and large, almost feminine hands. The hands fascinated me, in a macabre way. Slender fingers, nails just a bit too long but manicured. They were the sort of hands you see in horror flicks, wrapping around young girls’ necks and squeezing the life from their squirming little bodies. I shook myself and turned my attention to Red’s partner.
He was tall, too, but where Red was fair-skinned, this man was dark. An olive complexion darkened by recent exposure to the sun. Small, close-set black eyes. A boxer’s nose and knuckles.
The badges identified Red as Samuel Weller and his partner as James Timothy. They might as well have said John Doe and James Smith because I didn’t for a moment suppose they were using real names.
“Okay,” Jake said, apparently satisfied. “Talk.” He made no move to invite them inside.
“May we come in, Mr. Carpenter?” Red asked. “What we have to say is best kept confidential.” He looked briefly at the street behind him, as if emphasizing his statement. “It’s…”
“A matter of national security,” I finished with him. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Already got that T-shirt, boys. What do you really want?” I wanted to ask, How do you know Jake’s name? but didn’t.
“The FBI has assumed jurisdiction over the investigation into the death of David Margolies. We’d like to interview you about the circumstances surrounding the incident. We can do that here, inside, or at the local branch facility.”
In other words, I could either invite them in or take a trip in the back of a sedan with tinted windows. I knew the drill.
“All right, the living room it is,” I said, holding the door open.
We filed into Aunt Lucy’s small front parlor and sat, gingerly perched, on the edge of antique chairs and a Victorian love seat while the two men reviewed the events of the night before. Red’s partner, the alleged James, asked the questions, and
neither man even pretended to take notes. In fact, the entire proceeding had the air of a made-for-T.V. movie. It barely passed muster as an interview, and I had the impression that they were only going through the motions of asking me questions. What in the world was that about? I wondered. And when would they get around to the real reason for their visit?
I didn’t have to wait long. After five minutes of phony questioning, they turned the conversation to their main area of interest.
“We understand you and Mr. Carpenter were retained to investigate an alleged break-in and petty theft from Mrs. Margolies’s grandmother. Can you tell us what exactly was taken and what you were able to ascertain as a result of your investigation?”
The boys used such long-winded, government-speak! I smiled at them and shook my head. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. That’s privileged communication between our firm and our client.”
Red bristled. “We are investigating the double homicide of two government employees, ma’am. The laws governing the dispersal of confidential information do not pertain to private investigators.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What does my investigation have to do with their murders?”
Red’s partner attempted to play good cop to Red’s bad. “Well, now, Stella,” he said, shooting himself in the foot by talking to me like I was a reluctant three-year-old. “We don’t know if your investigation is tied to ours until you tell us about your case. It might have relevance and it might not.”
I felt imaginary hackles rise up on the back of my neck. “Well, now, Mr. Rogers,” I began. “I don’t know how they do things in your neighborhood, but around here we just don’t go blabbing all of our secrets without little permission slips. You know, maybe you ought to go get a yellow piece of paper that says something like, oh, I don’t know, ‘subpoena’ on it and come back for milk and cookies later.”
“All right, I’ve had enough of this bullshit,” Red announced. “Here’s how it’s going to go down. We’re in charge of this investigation and you two are to stay away from anyone having anything to do with it. That includes the family of Bitsy Blankenship, Brookhaven Manor and any and all other relevant parties, including but not limited to, members of the press, both print and other media.”
“You can’t do that,” I said, struggling to keep my voice calm.
“Try us,” Red answered.
“See ya,” Jake said, standing and gesturing toward the front door.
Red and his partner stood up but Red just had to have the last word before he left. “This is a federal investigation involving the death of two diplomats. I don’t think I need to remind you of the penalties for impeding our investigation. Unless you want to do time in a federal facility, you’ll follow our instructions and stay away from the Blankenship family.”
They left then, filing out the front door and down the steps to their government-issued white sedan. Jake closed the door behind them and stood with his back against the door, studying me.
“Well?” he said.
“Very interesting. Red seemed to think they were investigating a double homicide. Kinda runs counter to what they told the local boys, doesn’t it?”
Jake smiled, but the grin didn’t reach his eyes. They were a dark, dangerous blue, and his brow furrowed as he seemed to consider the implications.
“Yep, sure does.”
“So, what’s bothering you?” I asked.
Jake seemed to struggle with what he wanted to say and when he finally came out with it, I could understand his reluctance. “I’m wondering if Shelia’s been giving me the straight scoop about what’s going on.”
I allowed a slight ripple of self-satisfaction to fill me briefly with a smug, “I told you that bitch was no good!” attitude, before I returned my focus to our investigation.
“What do you mean? You think she’s lying? Why?”
Jake shrugged. “It’s a tight club and I’m a former member. She’s probably just doing her job.”
And you were dumb enough to think she’d choose you over doing her job? Poor baby!
I nodded. “Okay. Well, then, I guess we take anything she says with a grain of salt and try to verify it before acting.”
Jake nodded. I tried to put myself in his place and supposed he was feeling foolish. After all, he and Shelia had worked together for a long time. It’s hard to let go of what-was and face what-is-now. I wasn’t about to make him stew in it.
“I think we should have Spike talk to the local lab boys. Maybe we can find out more about how Bitsy’s car exploded and what made that happen. If we know that, we might get a bead on who was behind it. It might even be that Bitsy blew up her own car.”
“That would make a lot of sense. If she felt she was in trouble and needed a distraction, it would be simple enough to do,” he agreed.
“So, if that wasn’t Bitsy in the car, who was it?”
Aunt Lucy joined us in the kitchen, fresh from a trip down to the basement to visit Sylvia. When she caught sight of the two of us, she immediately launched into one of her lectures.
“I know what you were up to, sending those boys in to assist Sylvia,” she began. “Don’t think we old ladies can’t see your lack of faith.” She brushed past the two of us and began pulling out heavy iron pots and pans from the cabinets beside the stove.
“Aunt Lucy, no one can nurse a patient around the clock without help,” I protested.
“Be that as it may,” Aunt Lucy said, pouring a liberal dose of olive oil into a heavy Dutch oven. “We see through you two.” A chunk of butter slid off her knife to sizzle into the pan. Minced garlic followed, then onions and soon the kitchen was filled with the welcoming scents of home. Too bad Aunt Lucy’s attitude didn’t match the wonderful aroma.
“Well, I’d better get going,” Jake said, taking the chicken’s way out.
He turned toward the back door but stopped as Aunt Lucy’s boyfriend, Arnie, opened it from the outside and stepped into the kitchen.
Aunt Lucy took one quick look and dropped the wooden spoon she had been using to stir the pot.
“Stella, put on a pot of tea, sweetheart.” Aunt Lucy was using her crisis-management tone, the overly nice, “everything’s just fine” voice that let me know the opposite was in fact true.
I rushed to do as she ordered, watching Arnold Koslovski as I did. He was pale. Little beads of sweat stood out along his upper lip and despite his heavy topcoat, he appeared to be shivering.
The little man took two steps into the kitchen before his knees seemed to buckle. Jake was there, catching his elbow before he fell and guiding him, along with Aunt Lucy on the other side, to a sturdy wooden chair by the table.
“Whew!” Arnold said, grinning up at us. “I about lost my footing there. Now, Lucia, don’t go fussing with me. I’m all right!”
But he wasn’t all right. His eyes radiated pain. His face was gaunt and his cheekbones seemed to stick out in sharp contrast to his sunken cheeks. This was not the same man who’d been laughing and drinking with us all just the day before. This man was seriously ill, and I suddenly saw how very sick he was.
“I’m fine,” he said again, attempting to wave Aunt Lucy away.
She stuck fast, and after a moment Arnie reached out and gripped her hand in his. She sank down into the chair beside him, watching his face, reading a fresh spasm of pain that had begun and was building to a crescendo. I saw the little man’s grip tighten and the knuckles of my aunt’s hand turning white with the pressure.
“Stella, could you bring me a cool, wet washcloth, dear?”
I fled down the hallway to the linen closet, panicked by the mute appeal in Arnold’s eyes. When I returned, Jake was putting a tea bag into a mug and giving Aunt Lucy and Arnold some privacy.
“Here you go,” I said, handing her the cloth.
I was careful to keep my voice pitched to match hers but as I turned away I heard Arnold say, “I’m sorry, Lucia. I shouldn’t have come like this. I thought I was feeling better.”
Aunt Lucy shushed him. “You think I am your fair-weather friend, eh? You think I only want the strong man? Now I am in charge and you must answer to me!” She turned in her chair to issue another order. “Stella, in my medicine cabinet, there is a bottle labeled nausea. Bring it to me, cara.”
Aunt Lucy, famous for her homemade remedies in addition to her government-sponsored chemical formulas, had found something concrete she could do for Arnold.
When I came back into the room, Aunt Lucy was talking to him in a soothing voice.
“This will help you,” she said, reaching to take the bottle from me. “You will feel better and then I will put you into a nice bed with feather pillows and a warm down comforter. You are not going back to that place, Arnie. It is time for you to move in.”
Behind us a spoon clattered to the floor as Jake, eavesdropping, registered his surprise. Aunt Lucy living with a man? A sick man, at that, a man who was dying? I caught Jake’s eye and saw the same worried concern mirrored there. Could my aunt handle this? Even with all of us helping, could she face another loss so soon?
Jake finished making Arnold’s tea and carefully carried it across the room to him. Aunt Lucy was talking over Arnold’s objections, continuing ahead with her plans despite the man’s objections. Finally Arnold could take no more. With a burst of strident energy, he took on Aunt Lucy.
“Woman, listen to me! I’m dying! Dying is ugly and messy and painful. It’s not how a man wants a woman to see him. You’ve been through enough, don’t you think I know that? Dying at Honeybrook is the one gift I have left to give you. I don’t want you to suffer along with me. I didn’t come back here to put you through that. I came back to take care of you, not to have you take care of me! A man needs his pride!”
Aunt Lucy sat staring at him, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. Arnold pulled his hand from her grasp and repositioned it, so that he was now holding her hand in his.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry, Lucia,” he whispered. “Don’t cry.”
Jake and I looked at each other, frozen, wanting to leave but unable to figure out how to do so without distracting the two lovers who seemed to have forgotten us.
What Stella Wants Page 16
