Blue Goodness (Michael Kaplan Mysteries)

by David W. Cowles

  THE TELEVISION WAS ON when Michael entered Kimberly’s bedroom. She was propped up against two pillows, but her eyes were closed. He decided not to wake her. They could talk over breakfast in the morning. He stepped to the television set and turned it off.

  “Michael? Are you home?” Kimberly asked sleepily.

  “Yes, I’m here,” he answered in a whisper.

  “How late is it?”

  “It’s a little after one.”

  “Are you all right? Come sit by me and tell me what happened tonight.”

  Michael fumbled in the darkness toward Kimberly’s bed and sat down on the edge of it. Kimberly took his hand in hers. Even in the dim light coming in through the window she could see the drawn look of fatigue on his face. “You were with Soozie again, weren’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes, I was,” Michael admitted. “How did you know?”

  “You smell like frangipani again.”

  “I didn’t have sex with her.”

  “I didn’t ask you that, Michael. I’m not like Myra. I trust you implicitly. Besides, who you sleep with is none of my business, as long as you aren’t sleeping with me. But I do want to know what happened to Dr. Lamb and why you were with Mark Caruso at Metro.”

  Kimberly lit a cigarette. In the soft glow from the lighter Michael could see she was completely nude. He felt passion rising within him, and for a brief moment he wanted to forget all about Myra, forget he was married, forget about Soozie and the dead animals and Lamb lying in a coma in the hospital and Mark Caruso’s questions, and lose himself in the sweetness Kimberly had so frequently offered.

  Instead, Michael stood and paced the floor—slowly and painfully, because of his tortured ankle. He told Kimberly everything, starting with entering Lamb’s clinic and ending with going to dinner with Soozie. Kimberly chain-smoked three cigarettes during the time it took Michael to relate the events of the evening.

  “You’re upset about lying to Mark, aren’t you, Michael?” Kimberly asked, after she was sure he was through talking.

  “Yes, I am,” he confirmed. “Technically, I didn’t lie to Mark. Soozie did. I even tried to straighten him out, but he cut me off, and by the time I had another chance to say something, it didn’t seem to matter anymore. I don’t know. Maybe it’s best that I continue to use Soozie’s alibi. Maybe she was right—for some crazy reason Mark might suspect that I tried to kill Lamb.”

  “I think you should tell Mark the truth. Tell him you weren’t with Soozie this afternoon. Once you start lying there’s no telling where it will end.”

  Michael thought for a moment. He decided Kimberly was absolutely right. “Okay. You convinced me. I’ll square things with Mark first thing in the morning. Right now, I’m going to take a hot bath and soak my ankle, then get in bed.”

  “Give me a good night kiss before you go, Michael. Please.”

  His lips feather-touched hers. He dared no more, for he knew tonight it would take very little to melt his resolve.

  Twenty-One

  WITH MICHAEL AS HER HOUSE GUEST, Kimberly’s daily routine changed. For the third morning in a row she arose early, showered, finished her rituals in the bathroom, and dressed, long before Michael even woke up. Although she never started the day with more than coffee when she was by herself, Kimberly prepared a complete breakfast of bacon, pancakes, scrambled eggs, grapefruit juice, and a big pot of coffee.

  She was startled—and more than a little pleased—when Michael snuck up from behind, threw his arms around her, and gave her a kiss on the back of her neck. Still, she cautioned herself not to read more into his gesture than what he presumably intended—an affectionate good morning greeting.

  Kimberly eyed Michael with a curious smile. Something was different about him this morning, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. “Sit down, Michael,” she instructed. “Breakfast is ready.” Suddenly, Kimberly realized what was different; Michael was not using the crutches. “Your ankle—is it feeling better?”

  “Yes,” he grinned. “It’s almost back to normal. I’m going to be able to take my car to work today. You won’t have to schlep me around like I’m an invalid.”

  “I don’t mind at all. Really.” Actually, Kimberly relished the extra time chauffeuring Michael had enabled them to spend together. They’d carried on some meaningful conversations in the car, and Kimberly felt she was drawing him closer to her as each day passed. She believed she would make him forget about Myra in no time at all. His marriage to her rival would soon become a part of his past. A dim, distant memory, nothing more.

  Michael took a sip of coffee. It was still too hot to drink quickly. “You didn’t tell me what Bill Dover had to say yesterday,” he stated. “Does Bill think he’ll be able to help us locate the lost gold mine?”

  Kimberly shrugged her shoulders. “He doesn’t know yet. Bill said he wouldn’t be able to study the map for a day or so—he’s been working against a deadline on a job for the BLM—but he promised to get back with us as soon as possible, whatever that means.”

  After breakfast, Kimberly cleared the table while Michael rinsed the dishes and loaded the dishwasher. Without realizing it, he’d drifted into the pattern of performing the same chores at Kimberly’s house he always did at home with Myra. But while the tasks were fungible, the two women weren’t, and he sorely missed his wife.

  AS SOON AS MICHAEL was in his office he dialed Mark Caruso’s number. The detective was out, so Michael left word on Mark’s voice mailbox that he would like to talk with him as soon as possible. Next, thumbing through his stack of messages, Michael found one from Myra and decided to call her immediately. He hoped he could finish the conversation before Kimberly came to work. He didn’t exactly know why—it had never been a problem—but now, he felt he could speak to Myra more freely in private than he would be able to if Kimberly was sitting next to him in their tiny shared office.

  Myra was not home, but he reached her at the Gold Crest. “Hi, Myra. It’s me. I got your message.”

  Her voice was fragile and shaking. “I just wanted to thank you for the roses. They’re very pretty.”

  “I’m glad you like them. I understand you weren’t feeling well yesterday. Is everything all right now?” He spoke with sincerity and concern.

  “No, everything’s not all right,” she answered bitterly. “It made me very ill to see you flaunting your two women where I work. It was very embarrassing, Michael.”

  “Myra, please listen to me. You’re making Mount Everest out of a speed bump. Soozie—who’s a real estate agent—furnished me with a tip on a story for the Times. We had lunch to discuss a few things that happened the other day. Since I’d hurt my ankle and couldn’t drive, Kimberly drove me to the Gold Crest. Please, don’t be carried away by your imagination.” Everything Michael said was accurate, but what he omitted could have filled the Grand Canyon.

  Myra didn’t buy it. “Is it my imagination that you’re still sleeping with Kimberly?” Her voice seethed with sarcasm.

  Michael was intent on being truthful. “I’m still staying at Kimberly’s house,” he explained patiently and without apology. “But we’re in separate bedrooms. We’re not sleeping together.”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me you and your Soozie—I take it she’s the bimbo with orange hair—never had sex, either. Mark Caruso called me last night. He didn’t come right out and say you and Soozie were having an affair, but from the type of questions he was asking he might as well have. Of course, I couldn’t tell him anything because I had no idea the woman even existed until yesterday. But you know what they say. The wife is always the last person to know.”

  Michael was becoming increasingly irritated by Myra’s assumptions and accusations, but he tried not to let her get to him. He had no intention of admitting that, in fact, he and Soozie did have sex. Still, he was determined not to lie to his wife.

  “I told you, Soozie’s a real estate agent. She’s definitely not my girlfriend. I don’t even like the w
oman. And if there was anything going on between Kimberly and me—other than friendship—I would be honest and tell you. But there isn’t. I’m married to you and I love you. You mean everything in the world to me, Myra.”

  Myra’s voice gentled, but only temporarily. “What kind of trouble are you in, Michael? Why is Mark so interested in you and Soozie, and especially your whereabouts yesterday afternoon?”

  Michael did not hear Kimberly enter the office. She stood silently, listening to Michael’s side of the conversation.

  “I’m not in any trouble, Myra,” he rebutted. “I’ve been working on a story for the Times. Someone tried to murder one of my sources, so, naturally, Mark and I crossed paths and compared notes. That’s all.” It was another oversimplification, but, still, Michael had not lied to Myra. “When can we get together to talk things over? Perhaps we could do it over dinner.”

  “Where would you like to have dinner, Michael? How about the Seafarer?” Myra suggested.

  “Yes,” he was quick to agree. “That restaurant’s always had special meaning for us.”

  The bomb that had been ticking inside of Myra—ever since she picked up the phone and heard Michael’s voice—exploded. “You bastard!” she screamed into the mouthpiece. “I went to the Seafarer. By myself. Last night. You can imagine my surprise when the host told me you were already seated. He said he would escort me to your table, and I decided to let him. I assumed you were dining alone, or, more likely, with Kimberly. I thought perhaps you and I—or the three of us, if that’s what it turned out to be—could work things out, one way or the other. I’d already made up my mind that if you and Kimberly told me you were in love, I was ready to let you go then and there, without any problems. But when I saw you cuddling with that Soozie bitch, I turned and ran out the door.”

  Myra’s voice was venomous. “Don’t lie to me about Soozie not being your girlfriend, Michael. First, I see you having lunch with both Kimberly and Soozie. Next—the same day—I catch you and Soozie having dinner together, sitting as close as Siamese twins. At one of our favorite restaurants.

  “Please straighten me out, Michael. I’m confused. You’re living with Kimberly, but you’re dating someone else. I don’t understand why you didn’t just move in with Soozie. Does she already have a husband? Oh, I’m starting to get the picture. Kimberly—the person I believed to be my best girlfriend—set you up with Soozie, and now Kimberly’s acting as her beard.”

  “Myra, let me explain—” Michael tried. But it was too late. Myra had slammed the phone down and all he heard was the dial tone. He turned around and saw Kimberly.

  “Sorry, Michael, I couldn’t help hearing your conversation,” she sighed pensively. “I take it Myra still doesn’t believe you?”

  Michael’s face was red. His fists were clenched. “No, damn it. Now she thinks that Soozie’s my girlfriend, and you introduced us.”

  Kimberly smiled inwardly. Myra’s view of the situation was becoming even more convoluted. Things couldn’t be working out better if she had planned them. Best of all, Soozie had taken the heat away from her.

  Kimberly stepped behind Michael and massaged his shoulders; she knew how much he liked her to do that. “Don’t worry, Michael. Things will work out with Myra in time, just as they’re meant to.” Perhaps Myra will soon hire a divorce attorney, Kimberly smirked to herself.

  MICHAEL TURNED ON his computer, loaded the word processor program, and started typing the story about the dead animals in the mine. Kimberly stood behind him—still massaging his shoulders—and read as he typed. Periodically, she would suggest a word or phrase or remind Michael of something he had overlooked. He was glad to have her help. Due to the disturbing phone conversation with Myra, Michael’s mind didn’t seem to be functioning properly. It wasn’t that he had a case of writer’s block. He knew what thoughts he wanted to convey, but was having difficulty coming up with the best words to use.

  He was nearly finished with the article when the phone rang. Kimberly picked up the handset, spoke briefly, then handed it to Michael. “It’s Mark Caruso, returning your call,” she said.

  Michael took the phone. “Thanks for calling me back, Mark. I’d like to stop by and see you, as soon as possible. I have something important to tell you.”

  “I have something important to discuss with you, too, Michael.” There was a hint of portentousness in Mark’s voice. “It’s nearly eleven-thirty. Do you want to meet for lunch?”

  Michael looked at his watch. The morning had passed all too fast. “Yes. That’s probably best. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

  “Oh—are you driving today? I was going to come get you. I thought you had a bad ankle. Isn’t that why you were riding with Soozie yesterday?”

  Michael flinched at the mention of Soozie’s name. “My ankle is much better today, Mark. Thanks for your concern.”

  “Okay. I’ll be on the sidewalk in front of Metro headquarters at twelve sharp. Pick me up there. You won’t have to worry about trying to find a parking space.”

  When Michael hung up the phone he turned to Kimberly. “I’m leaving now to meet with Mark.”

  “Do you want me to go with you for moral support?” she offered. “I can back up your story about Soozie.”

  Michael definitely did not want Kimberly to accompany him. He had been feeling less sure about what actually happened at the for-sale house and had no intention of telling Mark that Soozie had raped him. Explaining Soozie to Mark would be much less embarrassing without Kimberly’s presence.

  “Would you? That would be great,” he told her enthusiastically. “Uh, oh. I nearly forgot. We have to do a rewrite on the Blue Goodness article, and I haven’t even started it. No—you’d better stay here. I’d like you to finish the dead animals article first; it needs just a little more editing. Then take care of the Blue Goodness rewrite. I’ll have my cell on, if you have to get in touch with me.”

  “I thought your battery was dead. I didn’t know you’d picked up your charger. When did you find the time to stop by your condo?” she asked jealously.

  “I didn’t. I haven’t been there since the day when I went to get my clothes. I’ll borrow a battery from someone here in the office.”

  Kimberly was relieved. She didn’t like the idea of Michael visiting Myra without her knowledge. Of course, she could never let him know she was already feeling possessive.

  Twenty-Two

  IT WAS A TYPICAL non-holiday midweek midday at Byrd’s Paradise on Fremont Street in downtown Las Vegas—that is to say, there was not a lot of action on the casino floor. About half the green-felt-covered tables in the pit wore a black vinyl tonneau cover to indicate they had not yet been opened for the day, and no more than four players were seated at any blackjack, pai gow poker, or Caribbean stud poker table where cards were being dealt. Only a few roulette and craps games were in operation, and they were similarly quiet.

  There were no gamblers at all in the semi-enclosed baccarat room; just dealers, tuxedo-clad floormen, and a few shills. Most shills for that high roller game are recent divorcees who lack employment skills, widows of casino executives, ex-showgirls, semi-retired hookers, or some combination thereof—women in their mid-thirties to early forties dressed to the nines in long evening gowns and high heels, wearing an excess of makeup to cover wrinkles and blemishes, puffing on long thin cigarettes in gold-plated holders, and sipping 7-Up in champagne glasses; women who work for minimum wages and tokes and the possibility of someday meeting a Texas oilman or some other millionaire who would find them still attractive and want to establish a permanent relationship—hopefully (but not necessarily) marriage.

  A scant score of people, mostly in their fifties or sixties, sat in the keno lounge. With bored faces, they silently watched an electronic display board light up as twenty out of eighty numbered Ping-Pong balls were expelled, one at a time, from a clear acrylic sphere (where the balls had been mixed by a blower) into plastic tubes known as rabbit ears. Despite their facade of di
sinterest in the outcome of the draw, each of the players prayed fervently that a sufficient number of the balls would match the spots they had marked on their tickets to make them rich.

  A constant dissonance emanated from the slot machine area: various electronic beeps, chirps, clicks, and bells, in total disharmony with the cacophony of silver-dollar-size tokens clanging into metal trays in a base voice, an alto tone coming from the quarter machines, and the chord completed with the soprano note of nickels dropping.

  Cocktail waitresses—in skimpy costumes designed to emphasize their bosoms and reveal as much of their derrieres as is legally permissible—wandered up and down the aisles, offering free drinks, courtesy of Byrd’s Paradise Casino. Management knew complimentary beverages were one of the best player incentives they could offer. The casino stood to more than recoup the cost of the liquor, beer, soft drinks, or coffee with every few minutes of machine play.