by P. J. Conn
"I'd not abandon you," Joe exclaimed. He gave her hand a fond squeeze.
"Of course not, but if you dropped by on Sunday afternoons, it wouldn't bother me at all if you'd spent your Saturday nights elsewhere."
Their conversation had turned more personal than he'd anticipated. "How do you know how you'll feel twenty or thirty years from now? Maybe you won't be so generous then."
"That's precisely why we should discuss this now. I'd not abandon you either, but I doubt you'd want me knitting by your bedside if I'd rather be seeing friends."
"How close are these friends?"
"Joe!" She couldn't help but laugh. "Maybe I'll make up something scandalous just to keep you entertained."
He grabbed her in a bear hug. "Don't you dare!"
She pulled away. "I'm serious. If one of us dies, the other should feel free to look for love with someone new rather than grieve themselves into an early grave."
"You're the only woman I've ever loved, Mary Margaret, and your place in my heart couldn't be filled with anyone else."
"How sweet you are." She leaned close to kiss him. "I feel so sorry for my neighbor, Patrick Wood. He's been alone for years longing for his late wife. I can't believe there haven't been nice women who've come into his shop with a watch needing repair. You and I met when I needed a detective. If I were gone, please don't miss a chance for love when another terrific woman consults you."
"There are no women as terrific as you. We've strayed off my original question. Let's talk in more general terms. If a man has an invalid wife, when should he mention her to a woman he's just met?"
She gave it serious thought. "Well, if he were just chatting with a woman at the library, and didn't expect to see her again, he'd have no reason to refer to his wife. But after they'd met again, and enjoyed discussing books, he should have explained he was married. When your client asked him to dinner, he should definitely have spoken up about his wife. Maybe he was afraid she wouldn't see him again, but he should have taken that chance and told her the truth."
"I agree, but I'll let my client decide on her own. Now let's have the ice cream I brought for dessert, and talk about something else."
"That's fine with me, but difficult questions can't be ignored." She left the sofa for the kitchen.
He followed. "I don't even know what the difficult questions are. Will you give me a list, and we can discuss them when we're walking in the park, or eating ice cream, or doing anything that won't leave me deeply depressed."
She gave him a quick kiss. "I'll work on it, but you already know about my mother's concerns, and I wouldn't have hidden them from you. That would have increased the problem tenfold. Do you want one scoop or two?"
"That's my kind of question. I'd like two please." He'd mailed their photos to her mother, and could only hope for the best while they awaited her response. He'd not waste a minute of their evening together worrying over it now.
* * *
Saturday morning, Hal and Gilbert met Joe at the golf course. Gilbert stared at him wide-eyed. "I took Marsha to see Arizona Sunrise last night. You might have had a small part, but you looked like you'd been driving cattle and hanging out in saloons your whole life. Marsha was really impressed that I play golf with you."
"She must impress easily, but I appreciate your taking her to see the movie."
"We love movies, and it was fun to see someone I know. I realize you're not a star yet, but it sure looked like you have the talent to become one."
"That's an overstatement for sure, but thank you. Now we're here to play golf, let's go."
Hal wore an amused grin Joe didn't appreciate, but he wouldn't say another word about his brief movie career. Inspired to focus on his game, he came close to meeting Gilbert's score, and that was something new.
As they walked to their cars, Gilbert turned shy. "I wouldn't ask this, but Marsha was wondering if you had photographs. She'd love for you to autograph one for her."
Joe drew in a deep breath, and reminded himself how innocent an individual Gilbert was. "I'm sorry, but I don't have publicity photos for fans as yet. Maybe after I do the Roy Rogers' film next year, I'll have some made. I'll be sure to save one for Marsha."
"Great." Gilbert nearly jumped up and down with excitement. "See you next week."
Joe walked with Hal to his car to pick up the California West check. "Thank you again for being so generous. Rev. Hatcher deserves most of this, and if you have any other cases involving ghosts, I'll call on him again."
"This was the first account of a ghost I've seen," Hal responded. "So they must be rare, but I'll keep you two in mind. Say, when you have photos, save one for Gladys, will you?"
Hal was laughing and Joe didn't care. "Sure. I'll give you two so you'll have one to carry in your wallet."
"Can't wait."
As Joe drove to his office, he counted Saturday golf games as a great way to spend a morning. As for the afternoon, he called Grace Adams, and asked her to come to his office for his report. She was there in half an hour. With Mary Margaret's encouragement, he stuck to the facts, and gave an account of what he'd learned at the Fair Oaks Convalescent Home.
When she stared at him wide-eyed, as though he'd referred to a difficult algebra problem, he tried again. "Louis is devoted to Patricia, who'll be an invalid for the rest of her life. Clearly he enjoys discussing books with you, but that may be all he can manage at present."
Grace's eyes filled with tears. "He should have told me he has a wife, even if she is bedridden. It isn't as though he led me on. He made no promises at all, but he still should have told me he's married."
"I agree. Now knowing what you do, you can choose how to proceed."
She removed an embroidered hankie from her purse and dabbed her eyes. "You mean that I can tell him I've learned he has a wife, or just be quiet about it and not expect more than a library friend?"
Joe leaned back in his chair. "There's another option, Mrs. Adams. Speak only about yourself. Tell Louis how much you enjoy his company, and wonder aloud if your friendship can become anything deeper."
"He'll have to tell me he's married then, wouldn't he?" She rolled her hankie into a damp ball. "I suppose the humiliation of asking would be worth it."
"If he doesn't mention his wife, you'll know all he wants is someone who loves to read. In that case, you'd be better off spending your time with another man who can meet your expectations."
She sighed sadly. "Maybe I'm too old to expect more than a buddy who loves visiting in the library."
"Nonsense," he responded. "I'll bet there are widowers at your church who'd love to keep you company."
"Maybe. I'll have to think on it."
The retainer she'd paid covered his time and expenses. He stood and moved to open the door for her. "I've enjoyed meeting you, Mrs. Adams. Please don't hesitate to consult me if you ever have the need."
"I'm grateful for your help, but I hope I'll have no further reason for your services."
After she'd left, he wondered how things would turn out for her and Louis, but he wasn't sufficiently tempted to sneak around the Beverly Hills library to find out.
With that job finished, he turned his attention to furriers. Constance would know where to begin, and he made a quick call and found her home.
"I'm thinking a furrier might recognize the mystery woman from the photo. Where would you buy a fur, if you were so inclined?"
"I'm not, but my mother likes William H. George LTD on Wilshire Blvd., they might care more about protecting their clients' privacy than being helpful, but I suppose it's worth a try."
"Thanks, I'll let you know if I find anything useful."
"Please do."
* * *
The popular furrier's building was another example of Los Angeles' exquisite Art Deco buildings. Scrolled leaf designs above the door and windows were frosting on an already perfect cake. The stark interior gleamed, and models waited to show off whatever the customer might desire to see in furs.
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A smartly dressed salesman met Joe as he came through the door, and he quickly described the purpose of his visit before he could be shown out. "I realize it may be difficult to recognize the woman in the photo, but do you have any idea who she might be?"
The man reacted as badly as Joe had feared. His nose even twitched as though he had caught a whiff of something utterly revolting.
"No, sir, I do not. If you're not interested in selecting luxury furs, may I suggest you shop where they sell wool coats with detachable red fox collars."
Joe laughed in spite of himself. "For all you know, I could be an eccentric millionaire, who might wish to order a dozen mink coats for Christmas gifts."
"I seriously doubt that, sir." He pushed open the front door, and Joe walked out.
He had no more luck at any of the other furriers he'd found listed in the telephone book. Although he did learn mink stoles were becoming popular and costing between $200 and $300, they were more affordable than a full-length coat. Unfortunately, it didn't add to his store of practical knowledge. He'd record the hours spent when he returned to his office, but it wasn't nearly enough when he'd met another dead end.
Chapter 9
Saturday night, Joe and Mary Margaret drove downtown to Clifton's Cafeteria on Broadway. It was a popular place with a forest décor that included a waterfall and stream. It was as close as Joe cared to go to camping out. They were both in the mood for macaroni and cheese, and savored every gooey bite.
"I can't tell you how much I look forward to spending weekends with you," she exclaimed. "Often we're so busy with our patients, we don't have more than a few minutes to gulp down lunch. I should eat more for breakfast."
"Bacon and eggs are among the few things I know how to prepare. Or, I can pour cereal into a bowl with the best of them."
She paused for a bite of lime Jello. "We're going to have so much fun together, Joe, it could be difficult to remember to go to work."
They might swiftly starve to death if she quit her job, but he was too happy to be marrying her to risk discussing money, or the lack thereof. It was probably one of the difficult subjects couples needed to discuss, but later.
After dinner, they were going to Thalia Dupré's latest movie, Lavender Lace, a Cinderella story where the pretty seamstress designing dresses for the ball lacks the time to create her own. He was confident a spectacular gown would be found in the nick of time, and the prince would surely fall in love with her. Mary Margaret would love the romantic story, but he was looking forward to Orchid Lane, a film with a sea captain and schooner he could relate to. He would save the autographed photo Thalia Dupré had sent him until a time he really needed to impress Mary Margaret.
* * *
Monday morning, he was busy sharpening pencils when the telephone rang. "Discreet Investigations."
"Mr. Ezell?"
"Yes, how may I help you?"
"We met last week at Constance Remson's tea. My name's Karen. I doubt you remember me."
"Of course I remember you. You were worried other members of the Philharmonic might be in danger."
"Yes, and I still do. Can you meet me in Plummer Park at ten o'clock this morning? I take my son there whenever I can."
"I'll be there." He found her by the swings with soft bucket seats for babies. Her chubby one-year-old son was giggling with every push. "What a handsome boy!" he called to her.
"Thank you. Kevin is so good-natured I can take him anywhere, and we'll both have a good time."
There were other mothers with small children gathered around the sandbox. But they were the only ones at the swings. He checked over his shoulder, but no one was close enough to overhear their conversation.
"I expect you had a good reason to call."
"I thought I did, but now I'm not so sure." She was a slender young woman with curly dark hair and brown eyes. She'd bundled up her son, and worn a sweater over her cotton dress to ward off the slight chill in the morning air.
"Let me decide. Did you know Matteo well?"
"No, but he'd brush by me whenever we happened to be in the same room. He had the most incredible smile, an inviting grin. Do you know what I mean?"
"Yes, I do."
"The last time I saw him, maybe a month ago, he slipped his business card into my hand, and winked at me. It was all very sly and teasing, but I knew exactly what he wanted. I wasn't even tempted and threw away his card, but that doesn't mean there weren't other wives who'd welcomed his attentions. Symphony musicians can be so focused on their instrument and performances, they devote little time to their family."
"It's a common mistake across many careers, I'm afraid. Do you have any idea who any of these lonely women might be?"
"Any of the young, pretty ones, but I won't mention names when I'm not sure. Matteo appreciated women in general, and maybe it was a hunger he had to satisfy. A woman who'd wanted him all to herself might have killed him in a jealous rage."
For a woman who'd not seen the bloody murder scene, she'd described it well. "He appears to have given many women a motive."
She pulled her son out of the swing seat and gave him a loving hug. "Even if I can't name any suspects, I wanted you to know he wasn't above poaching other symphony members' wives."
"Thank you. If anything more occurs to you, please let me know."
"I will." Kevin waved as she carried him away, and Joe waved to him. Kevin was a cute kid, as all babies were, but he was in no hurry to become a father.
* * *
When Joe returned to his office, he called Henry Hilburn, a retired LAPD detective who had access to information a private detective couldn't get. "I'm working on Matteo da Milano's murder. Have you heard anything interesting about the case?"
"I might have heard a word or two. Want to come over?"
"Sure, I'll be there soon and bring the beer."
Henry lived in a modest home in the San Fernando Valley. A tall, thin, bald man, he resembled an inverted exclamation point. He ushered Joe out to the back patio, pulled two chairs away from the table, and invited him to sit. They sipped their beers in companionable silence until Henry was at last inspired to speak.
"You have to be an excellent private eye, Joe, because you know how to listen. It appears to be a lesson many find difficult to learn. As for Matteo da Milano, Detective Lynch is interviewing every woman he can find who's dated him. He began with some society dame, and followed what she knew about Matteo to the next woman, and then she points him to the next, like links in a chain. Of course, he's overlooking all the women who aren't known to have had affairs with the cellist, or won't own up to it."
"Married women you think?"
"Sure. Apparently Matteo was as fine a virtuoso of women as he was of the cello. I have to admire his stamina, if not his lack of morals. He reminds me of gamblers who won't quit until they've lost their last dime. Apparently, Matteo never ran out of charm."
"Clearly it wore thin with the woman who killed him."
"True. She must have been the exception."
Joe liked that thought. What made her different from the women Matteo had loved and left, probably without sending a last bouquet of roses? He sat up in his chair. "I'll bet he sent flowers, and Lynch won't think to check with florists, will he?"
Henry tipped his bottle in a salute. "Matteo must have sent a ton of flowers, and a florist would have a record of where they went. I won't keep you here, when there's time left in the day to pursue such a good lead."
"Thanks again, Henry."
* * *
Joe called Constance Remson when he reached his office. "It's Joe Ezell. I had no luck with furriers, but now I have another question. Did Matteo ever send you flowers?"
"Yes, a beautiful bouquet of red roses when we first began seeing each other. Why?"
"It's a way to track the women he dated. Do you remember which florist delivered them?"
"I saved the card in the little envelope. They were from a place called the Wonder of Roses on Wilsh
ire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. It's near the Beverly Wilshire Hotel."
If she had been there, Joe would have kissed her. "Thank you! I may not be able to find out all I need to know today, but I'll call you next week."
"I'll meet you there," she offered. "My name will mean something to them, and I'm betting yours won't."
"Good point."
* * *
The Wonder of Roses had a corner spot on Wilshire Boulevard. The shop's windows were filled with gift items and beautiful rose bouquets. Joe had waited outside only a few minutes when Constance arrived.
Joe greeted her with his plan. "Let's tell the manager we're hosting a memorial for Matteo, and don't want to forget anyone who was important to him. Monday has to be a slow day for the shop, which should work to our advantage. If they have a file for Matteo, we can copy the names and addresses and be on our way."
"I know the owner. Let me speak to him first."
"Give it your best shot." He crossed his fingers and pulled open the front door for her, and the unmistakable perfume of roses rolled over them in the humid air. Glass refrigerator cases lined one wall of the shop with a colorful array of roses in tall ceramic vases. Arranged bouquets in the last case showed off the florist's talents. Two women and a young man were working at a long workbench along the opposite wall creating matching bouquets.
When a gray-haired man wearing a white shirt, khaki slacks, and a green apron approached them, Constance stepped in front of Joe. "I want to tell you again how beautiful the centerpieces were for my tea last week. They were absolute perfection. Charlie Bloom, this is Joe Ezell."
Charlie shook Joe's hand. "For special clients, I do work with chrysanthemums, but you mustn't tell anyone I admitted it. What would you like today, Miss Remson?"
She returned his warm smile. "We're hosting a gathering to remember Matteo da Milano. We don't want to miss anyone who might have been important to him. Do you keep files of customers' orders we might see?"
