Blabbermouth (A Brit Moran Mystery)

by Joel Travis

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. I guess I was trying to help.”

  “Help who?”

  “Help you.”

  “Me? What makes you think I need help?”

  “You always need help. And I talked to Susan two hours ago.”

  “Oh. Did she bring you up to date?”

  “I think so. She told me about your auto accident. I’ve been traveling in Europe with Barbara Crenshaw for the past few weeks, so I didn’t know anything about the accident until today. I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Who’s Barbara Crenshaw?”

  “A friend from New Orleans. She loves to travel so much that she can never wait to get away, no matter where she is. She talked me into coming to Vegas with her. So here I am.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Susan said you were also in Vegas, but she didn’t know where you were staying. You and I stayed at the Stardust on our trip, so I offered to swing by the hotel and see if you were registered. Susan wanted me to make sure you were on your way back to Dallas. She said Marty is worried about you.”

  “It’s good to see you again,” I said.

  “Thanks. Susan also told me about your client being murdered.”

  “Yeah, Detective Gardner thinks I’ll be the prime suspect.”

  “That sounds serious. Are you worried? I would be if I was a suspect.”

  “You are a suspect.”

  She looked at me intently, perhaps to see if I was jesting. “You think I’m a suspect because they found his wallet in my garden?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I have no motive. I never even met the man,” she said. “Where are my eyeglasses?”

  I spotted her glasses nestled up against the baseboard. They must have flown off her face when I grabbed her by the neck and hurled her to the floor. The glasses weren’t what they used to be, but the lenses were intact. The frames were all bent out of whack. I bent them back into a shape I judged suitable to fit Sheila’s head.

  “As good as new,” I said, handing her the mutilated glasses.

  “I have another pair in my hotel room,” she said, not even bothering to try them on.

  “Anyway,” I said, “you’re a suspect. You had easy access to the garden.”

  “Oh, please. You’re not suggesting I could be involved in a murder?”

  I remembered a remark she had made on our way home the night we tried to flee the country. In retrospect, there was something fishy about it. I decided to bring it up for discussion.

  “Do you remember the night we took off for Mexico? You made me turn the car around and go home.”

  “The only sensible decision made that night, as I remember.”

  “Well, I was under a lot of stress. I had lost a hundred thousand dollars. I told you my life was in danger if I returned to Dallas. Do you remember your response?”

  “I’m sure I told you how ridiculous you were. I don’t remember my exact words.”

  “I do.”

  “Okay, so tell me. What were my exact words?”

  “No one’s going to kill you.”

  “So?”

  “How could you be so sure?”

  “I’m missing your point.”

  I began to pace the room with my hands clasped behind my back. “Isn’t it true that you knew no one would kill me because you intended to eliminate Hedgeway yourself? You knew if he was out of the picture permanently, Cesar would never find out about the bet and kill me, the family breadwinner.”

  I pivoted to face the witness. The witness laughed at me. I tried to determine whether it was the laughter of one who has observed someone making a fool of himself, or that of a deranged killer. Too close to call.

  “Brit, you’ve got to lighten up.”

  Perhaps she was right. I was under stress, blowing things out of proportion. I returned to my normal, sensible self. Sheila was no murderer. I knew that. It was as plain as the nose on her face. That was not the nose of a murderer. Looked more like the nose of a murder victim.

  Sheila called Barbara Crenshaw to tell her that she planned to hang out with me for a while. I couldn’t hear Barbara’s response, but I gathered from Sheila’s end that Crenshaw was against the idea.

  “I understand if you need to go,” I said, hoping she would stay.

  “I’m enjoying this,” she said. “What are you drinking?”

  What a dolt I was. I hadn’t even offered the battered woman a drink. I went out for more ice, having spilled the last two buckets. When I returned, Sheila had a disturbed look on her face.

  “What happened in there?” she asked, pointing to the bathroom.

  “Are you referring to the mirror?”

  “What’s left of it.”

  “I broke it when I tried to hit myself in the face,” I said. “I was upset about the robbery and the general state of affairs.”

  “What robbery?”

  “A young lady was staying with me. She ripped me off. I’m broke.”

  I told her the whole story about Lori and my journal.

  “Can I read the journal?” she asked.

  “Absolutely not. I don’t need any more trouble. I’m beginning to wish I had never written it in the first place. If I hadn’t spent so much time on it, I’d destroy it right now.”

  “That might not be a bad idea,” Sheila suggested. “Has it occurred to you that your journal is evidence which could be used against you? If you described the wager you made with the dearly departed, your own words will incriminate you.”

  She was right. I needed to dispose of it pronto. I went to the safe and grabbed the journal. I held the spiral notebook in my hand, knowing that I should put a match to it.

  “Wait,” I said. “There are already witnesses who know I made the bet. Anyone who heard my deathbed confession could testify to it. It wouldn’t do any good to dispose of the journal for that reason. On the other hand, anyone who reads this journal would know that I didn’t kill Hedgeway. I think it works in my favor.”

  Writing in my journal was therapeutic and a habit I would have found hard to break. In spite of the trouble it had caused, I was glad it would continue to be part of my daily routine.

  #

  A bottle of scotch only goes so far. We took our party downstairs to one of the casino bars. I was broke, so Sheila paid for all our drinks with her credit card. For the first time ever, I didn’t feel queasy when she whipped out the plastic.

  Sheila told interesting anecdotes about her recent travels throughout Europe. To keep pace, I put in a few comments about my travels through the back streets of Dallas in the Pinto. Our conversation shifted to the future.

  “Well, we’re both murder suspects,” she said a bit too loudly.

  I noticed the long-haired bartender retreat warily into the back room, watching us before he disappeared behind the swinging doors.

  “So what are we going to do about it?” I asked.

  Drinking always makes me feel like I can do something. No problem seems insurmountable when I’m fortified. Sheila was feeling the same power.

  “We’ll go back to Dallas and bring the killer to justice!” she said, pounding her small fist on the bar. She hiccupped, then giggled.

  I was getting very drunk, but the woman was making sense. Ace Monroe had told me only yesterday that I was like John Wayne. Very much like him, I thought, as I proposed a toast to “The Duke.”

  “I’m lost,” Sheila said. “Why are we toasting the duke? At least tell me which duke we’re toasting.”

  “To John Wayne!” I said.

  The other patrons were all in favor of my toast. They drank heartily. Everyone was having a good time. I was feeling exceptional. I looked around for the bartender to order more drinks for everyone. I spotted him at the end of the bar talking to a muscle-bound member of the casino’s security staff. He was pointing at Sheila’s face, which was swollen and puffy. I knew what they must be thinking.

 
; “Hey, it’s okay,” I said. “I hit her in the face several times, but she’s my ex-wife.”

  You know what I was trying to say, but the security man didn’t. The brawny brute wrestled me to the ground and put me in a headlock. Then he pulled me to my feet and hauled me to the security office. Sheila tagged along. Between the two of us, we eventually convinced the security man that we were well-meaning drunks, the lifeblood of any casino. He let us go our merry way.

  Our merry way led us on a walk along the strip. Strolling under God’s stars on a country lane may be more peaceful, but walking under a million man-made lights on the Vegas strip has its advantages. There is an excitement in the cool night air which causes one to dream bigger than his britches. Following up on Sheila’s brilliant idea of uncovering the Codger’s murderer ourselves, I stressed the urgency of purchasing disguises, recording devices, and Mace.

  “It sounds like fun,” Sheila said. “Who else can we get to join in?”

  “Ace Monroe,” I said, because it was the first name that popped into my drunken head.

  “Who’s that?”

  “A friend of Marty’s,” I said, stumbling over a tree root. I had veered off the sidewalk somehow. “He’s a man of great insight.”

  And I was like John Wayne.

  “We could use a brain like that on our team,” Sheila said. “Would he be willing to help?”

  I shrugged. “He’s got nothing better to do. He’s unemployed.”

  We sat down on a concrete bench.

  “We’ll need headquarters,” Sheila said, “and a mastermind to plan everything. I guess that would have to be Ace.”

  “Ace? He has no experience as a mastermind.”

  “Hey, how about Forest Gardner? He’s a real detective.”

  “I’m not sure we can trust him. He’s in cahoots with the police.”

  Sheila knitted her brow in concentration. I waited for her to conclude that I was the obvious choice for mastermind. “Maybe we don’t need a leader,” she said. “We could make it a democracy. Whenever our investigation bogged down, we could vote on what to do next.”

  “I don’t think it should be a democracy.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let’s face it, you’re not half the murder suspect I am,” I boasted. “I’m the one who knew the Codger. I’m the one who knows Cesar. I’m the one who—”

  “—got yourself into this mess. Okay, so you’re the one. I take it that you think you should be the mastermind. Be my guest. But when you’re drawing up any plans that include me, use a pencil.”

  #

  Sheila must have been suffering through the effects of a hangover. I didn’t hear from her until she called me from her hotel room at three o’clock the following afternoon. In the sober light of day—ideal conditions for viewing a badly bruised face—I wasn’t sure Sheila would be as enthusiastic about our plans to bring a murderer to justice. I needn’t have worried. She told me she couldn’t wait to get started on the investigation. She had already reserved three seats on a flight departing Vegas at 6:06 p.m.

  “Three seats?” I said. “There’s only two of us.”

  “Don’t forget Barbara.”

  Crenshaw had no role in our detective work. Dead weight.

  “You said she lived in New Orleans,” I said. “Why is she coming to Dallas with us?”

  “It’s funny you should say that. She keeps asking me the same question about you.”

  I decided not to press the point. I couldn’t risk alienating Sheila by raising objections. I agreed to meet them at the airport. Overall, I was pleased with the arrangement. I had a few hours until our flight. Enough time to follow up on an idea of how to recover my stolen money.

  I had logically assumed that Lori had taken the first available flight to Dallas. Yet not a soul had seen her hail a cab or board an airport shuttle. What if Lori was still in the hotel, hiding right under my nose? If so, I might be able to sniff her out.

  I remembered the last words I’d heard her speak. “Let’s go to Stacy’s room.”

  I had no idea which of Lori’s stripper-like companions was Stacy. I didn’t have a last name or a room number, so I decided to stake out the lobby and wait until one of Lori’s new friends passed my way. Or Lori herself.

  I positioned myself at a slot machine in order to be inconspicuous. I didn’t want the girls to see me before I saw them; the element of surprise was essential. I had the perfect seat to reconnoiter the lobby and elevators while hiding behind an obstructive machine.

  “Are you using this machine?” asked a nondescript, middle-aged woman. “If you’re finished, I’d like to play.”

  “Haven’t even started,” I said. “You might want to try another machine.”

  She reluctantly meandered off in search of an open seat. Half an hour later she returned. Again she saw me just sitting there, not playing. I couldn’t have played even if I’d wanted to—you need money for that. She stood beside me for a few minutes.

  “Are you playing this machine?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m only asking because this is my lucky machine. I wanted to try it one last time before I go to the airport.”

  “I’ll be here a while,” I said. “I’m winning my ass off.”

  She cringed at my foul language. “I won forty-seven dollars last night on this machine. How much have you won?”

  “I hit the jackpot,” I said.

  “That’s wonderful! Isn’t it exciting to win at the slots?”

  “Yes, it’s wonderful and exciting.”

  “My husband said I was wasting my time on the slots. He’s at the bar drinking, as if that’s a constructive use of his time.”

  I thought I saw one of Lori’s friends traversing the lobby. I hopped out of my seat and took a few strides toward the lobby before I realized it was a false alarm. I went back to the slot machine. The woman was sitting in my seat, shoving coins into the slot like a cocaine-crazed chimp. I watched her play for a couple of minutes until she stopped to dig more coins out of a plastic cup. I decided to take a friendly approach to regain my seat.

  “My name is Brit,” I said. “What’s yours?”

  “I’m married.”

  “Yeah, I know. You already told me that your husband’s getting sloshed at the bar.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m not faithful to him.”

  “Look, I was about to explain to you that I wasn’t finished playing this machine. I was not trying to pick you up.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to admit it. I watched you. You didn’t deposit a single nickel. Your eyes were glued to every woman who passed through the lobby.”

  “That’s because I was looking for a certain girl.”

  “Well, look elsewhere. This girl’s not interested.”

  “Do you mind if I watch you play?” I asked, still hoping to hide behind the machine during my surveillance.

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  I wasn’t about to be bullied into abandoning the ideal surveillance spot. I was there first.

  The woman stood up, gesturing wildly to someone. Before I knew what was happening, the brawny security man strode up to me.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked. “Oh, it’s you again!”

  “This man keeps hitting on me!” the woman said.

  The security man quickly wrestled me to the floor, proving it had been no fluke when he’d done it the night before. “I’m glad you called this to my attention,” he said to the woman after I was secured in a headlock. “I’ll make him wish he’d never struck a woman!”

  “He didn’t hit me. He was trying to pick me up.”

  The security man relaxed his grip slightly. I could almost breathe.

  “I told him to leave,” she said, “but he wouldn’t go away.”

  “Don’t worry, he’s coming with me.”

  En route to the security office I passed a familiar face. Engaged in a discussion with the front desk personnel, Julio Hernande
z didn’t notice me stagger by on shaky legs.

  Chapter 7

  “I’m afraid I must insist that you leave the hotel,” the security man said. “I’ll take you up to your room. You can pack your things.”

  For the first time, I noticed his name tag. The tag said “David” but he looked more like Goliath. With Julio Hernandez on the premises, I decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to let a muscular security professional escort me to my room.

  “I’m ready when you are,” I said.

  “I’m glad you’re cooperating,” he said, rising from his seat. “Makes it easier on both of us. It’s never a comfortable situation for me when I have to ask a guest to leave the hotel.”

  On the way to my room I kept a sharp lookout for Lori’s friends, Lori, or Julio. I didn’t see any of them until we exited the elevator on my floor. Thirty feet ahead, a solitary figure leaned against the wall. As we approached my room, Julio turned to face us.

  I sized him up. At under six feet and no more than one hundred-fifty pounds, Julio didn’t intimidate me in the least. I swiveled my head to verify that David was still right behind me. When we’d advanced to within ten feet of my room, Julio turned his back and walked away. David must have thought it suspicious that the man who’d been lurking near the door of my room was now ambling aimlessly toward the dead end of the hallway.

  “Do you know him?” he whispered over my shoulder.

  “He’s nobody,” I said, raising my voice loud enough for Julio to hear. “Just a punk with nothing to do.”

  It was fun to say that, and I derived some satisfaction from it, but in retrospect I’m not sure it was prudent. Julio stopped in his tracks. He turned to face me, squinting his ominous eyes.

  Was I looking into the eyes of a killer?

  #

  David watched me pack what little I had in a pillowcase. He asked me where I thought I was going with hotel property. I told him I wasn’t stealing any towels, shampoo, or soap bars like most guests did, so he could cut me some slack on the pillowcase. He didn’t seem satisfied with my answer until I added that I would be out of the state in two hours. To expedite my departure, he let me take the pillowcase.