by P. J. Conn
"Have you received any threatening letters in the mail?"
"I've gotten plenty over the years, but not lately. I've no idea who it could be, that's why I want you to follow him and discover who he is and what he wants. He followed me to the LA Examiner office this morning."
"Did he follow you here?" Joe asked.
"I didn't see him, but that doesn't mean he wasn't there. I've told everyone I've spoken to that I need information on the Black Dahlia's killer. If my questions have reached him, he might be following me."
Last January's gruesome murder of Elizabeth Short, called the Black Dahlia, had been the subject of many of their conversations. "He'd be dangerous in the extreme," Joe replied. "He'd attack you when you least expected it rather than follow you and risk being sighted. Have you considered going to the police?"
Marty brushed his hair off his forehead with splayed fingers. "I've criticized the police for not solving the crime, so they'd laugh at me. Which I'd probably deserve."
Joe got up to look out the window, and found a four-door gray DeSoto parked across the street. "Come here."
Marty came up behind him, and Joe moved out of his way. "Is that the car?"
"Sure looks like it. Maybe I should go out the back door and take the bus home."
"That shouldn't be necessary. I recently met a man who raises Doberman Pinschers. Have you considered owning a guard dog?"
Marty scoffed, "What would I do with him when I go out on interviews or work at the office?"
"Leave him at home. Have you considered whoever is driving the car might have information for a story? He could be building up the nerve to approach you."
"Or kill me." Marty returned his chair. "Is there any coffee in the pot?"
Joe poured him a cup. "Enjoy that, while I go across the street to see who the owner of the DeSoto might be."
"Just like that, go ask him?"
"Yeah, if he points a gun at me, I'll call the police on him. If he doesn't, I'll find out why he's there."
The telephone rang before he could step out of his office. "Discreet Investigations."
"It's Mary Margaret. We didn't have plans for tonight, but will you please come by for dinner? We've something important to discuss."
She sounded badly troubled, which worried him. "Do you want to give me a hint?"
"No, I don't dare. See you later."
Joe hung up, and shrugged. "Looks like my fiancée has a problem. I'll make short work of yours first." Without intending to, he'd looked fierce in Arizona Sunrise. If he were going to be called an actor, practice should help him refine his modicum of talent.
Marty got up to look out the window. "Get his license plate number so we can file a police report if we need to."
"Sure." Joe crossed the street with the light at the corner, pulled out the notebook and pen he carried and did just that before approaching the car. The driver was watching the drugstore in Joe's building and didn't notice him until he swung open the passenger side door and looked in.
Joe pitched his voice low, "You ought to keep your doors locked so strangers don't accost you on the street."
The driver was a husky fellow with an odd assortment of features, none of them handsome, which created a perfect face for a villainous cartoon character. As he spoke, his mouth twisted into a downward snarl. "Get out of here!"
"You're following a friend of mine, and he doesn't care for your company."
"Who are you, his secretary?"
"You might call me that. If you want to talk to Mr. Streech, he can be reached at the LA Examiner."
"Clacking typewriters give me headaches."
The man certainly didn't look delicate, and Joe pressed him further. "Why don't we go across the street and have a cup of coffee at the drugstore counter. I'll relay your message to Mr. Streech, and if he's interested, he'll set up a meeting."
"Do they have tea?"
Joe had seen women order it. "Yes, they do." This guy had proved to be as terrifying as a cream puff. Nothing is at it seems, he reminded himself, and didn't take his eyes off him as they crossed the street. The man was both tall and broad, the type his mother would have referred to as a galoot.
They took stools at the counter near the front windows. "How's the pie here?" the man asked.
"Very good," Joe answered, although he doubted he'd had more than a single slice.
The waitress at the counter approached them. "Did I hear someone mention pie? A pastry chef who sells only to us delivers fresh pies every morning. What's your pleasure, cherry, berry, or apple with a scoop of vanilla ice cream?"
"Cherry," the man answered. "With hot tea."
"You got it, hon. What can I bring you, Joe?"
"Just coffee, thanks." He waited for her to walk to the far end of the counter to fetch the pie. "Let's talk now, while we won't be overheard."
After a long hesitation, the man asked, "Have you heard of Howard Hughes?"
"Who hasn't? Did you see the Spruce Goose when he flew it?"
"November 2, this year, it was. I'll not forget the date. I helped to build it, and heard a lot of stories about Mr. Hughes. Stories I figure someone would pay to know, but I won't say my name and have Hughes fire me."
Joe couldn't fault his discretion. "I can't speak for Mr. Streech." He sat back when the waitress brought their orders. The pie did look awfully good, but he'd not spoil his appetite for Mary Margaret's always fine dinner. "How long have you worked for Hughes?"
"A couple of years." He paused to add sugar to his cup of tea and to savor the pie. "We aren't close buddies, but I saw and heard a lot that should interest curious people."
Howard Hughes being such a flamboyant figure, Joe understood completely. "If you'll stay right where you are, I'll contact Mr. Streech, and see if he's interested."
He raised his hand to promise. "I won't move."
Joe went up to his office and found Marty pacing. "The guy thinks you'd be interested in information about Howard Hughes, but he didn't want to go to your office."
"You're kidding me," Marty exclaimed.
"No, and that's not a story I'd even think of. He's eating a piece of cherry pie at the end of the drugstore counter. Want to come down and meet him?"
Marty didn't need to think long. "I should before he gives the story to someone else."
"I'll walk you downstairs, but I'm leaving you two there."
"Fine, lead the way. I won't forget this, Joe. Do I owe you something?"
"Not today, but the next time you need a detective, I'll give you a bill."
"Fair enough."
Joe left when Marty was seated beside the man. The fellow didn't want to be identified as the source of the story, but what would Hughes's reaction be should the LA Examiner publish it? Marty was smart enough to anticipate the problems even if he couldn't avoid them.
* * *
Worried Mary Margaret had received some disheartening news, Joe stopped by the flower shop close to his home and bought a bouquet of fresh flowers. It was a mere token, but he hoped it would raise her spirits. He smiled as he knocked on her door, but when it was opened by a red-haired woman rather than his beloved, he knew exactly who she must be.
"Mrs. McBride!" he exclaimed. She was as petite as her daughter, and he leaned down to kiss her check. "How wonderful it is to meet you."
She didn't move out of the doorway until her daughter took her arm to nudge her aside. "This is Joe, Mama. Do you want him to call you Matilda?"
"Mrs. McBride will do," she replied, with a mortician's lack of humor.
Joe ignored her icy mood, and kept smiling. "You'll be a great help to Mary Margaret with plans for the wedding." He handed his beloved the bouquet.
"I'll put these in a vase," she answered and made a quick dash for the kitchen.
Rather than make another effort at conversation, Joe waited for his future mother-in-law to speak. She looked more likely to growl. He gestured toward the sofa, and she sat at the end. He took the armchair opposite he
r.
"I didn't care for your movie. It was too violent for my tastes."
He'd had only a couple of lines and couldn't claim the film as his own. "I know exactly what you mean. Westerns often have too much gunplay. I prefer films with humor myself."
She nodded. "Well, at least you're better looking than I first thought."
"Thank you," he replied, uncertain if she'd actually paid him a compliment. "Did you come on the train?"
"Yes, with beautiful scenery along the way, it was a more pleasant trip than I had anticipated."
She seemed to always expect the worst, and with her husband's sudden death in 1945, he couldn't blame her. "I'm looking forward to seeing the coast when Mary Margaret and I travel to Seattle." After several minutes of strained conversation, he was relieved when Mary Margaret called them to dinner.
With her mother's attentive assistance, Mary Margaret had made meatloaf with mashed potatoes, and green beans. The dinner was delicious, but Joe struggled to swallow. Mrs. McBride's frosty gaze focused on him each time he raised his fork, as though he were displaying a shocking lack of manners. When he glanced down at his plate, there seemed to be more food waiting, and he feared dinner might never end.
"Will you be able to stay for Thanksgiving?" he asked.
"Of course. I'd not come this far and then turn right around and go home. My daughter, Rose, will have the rest of the family to her home for Thanksgiving dinner."
Joe's smile grew increasingly shaky, and his cheeks began to ache. "Wonderful. Being here will give you a chance to meet Mary Margaret's neighbors." He wondered if Patrick Wood, the widower in cottage three, could be persuaded to keep Matilda company. He might be a few years older, but it would be for only a single afternoon, not a lifetime.
There was ice cream for dessert, which Joe welcomed gladly, then as gracefully as he could manage, he bid them good night. "It was so nice to meet you, Mrs. McBride. I know Mary Margaret needs to be at work early, so I'll leave for home. I'm looking forward to Thursday. Is there something I can bring?"
Mary Margaret took his arm and ushered him toward the door. "I always forget the relishes, you know, carrots, celery, olives? Could you do that? I have a dish for them."
He owned a peeler, even if it had been awhile since he had used it. "Sure, I'll bring them." He pulled her out the door to kiss her goodnight.
"My mother can be a real pill. Was she too awful?" she whispered.
Another kiss answered her question. "As long as you love me, she can be a whole bottleful."
"Oh, Joe. I can always count on you to say the right thing." She slipped back inside, and Joe left without attempting to overhear when her mother might say something he wouldn't want to take in.
The lights were still on in Patrick Wood's cottage, and Joe knocked softly on the door. Quite naturally, Patrick was surprised to see him. A slender man with thick gray hair, he had a friendly smile. "Mr. Ezell, come in. What can I do for you this evening?"
A grandfather clock dominated the room, but Joe understood its chime comforted the watchmaker. "Mary Margaret's mother is visiting from Seattle for Thanksgiving. I wondered if you could make a point of speaking with her."
"It will be a pleasure. Are you asking everyone to do the same?"
Joe immediately saw the need to do so. "Your lights were on, and I'm beginning with you, but I'll certainly encourage everyone to be charming. Matilda is a widow, and clearly needs more attention than she receives at home. You needn't attach yourself to her, just be friendly."
Patrick straightened up. "I doubt I have much in the way of charm, but I'll give it a try for Mary Margaret's sake."
"Thank you so much."
Daniel and Patty Hill in cottage two had a new baby, and he bypassed their home to stop at number one. Phyllis and John Cameron, an elderly couple, were always eager to entertain.
"I'll take them some scones tomorrow morning," Phyllis volunteered. "If Mary Margaret is at work, I'll invite her mother to come visit with us."
"Thank you, that would be so kind." He left before they could ask him to stay awhile and went home feeling better about the prospects for Thanksgiving. He could count on Luke Hatcher to be friendly, and he'd introduce Matilda to the other two couples living on Chrysanthemum Courts on Thursday.
* * *
Once home, Joe kicked off his shoes and sat down in his only arm chair. Attempting to impress Matilda had completely worn him out, but he had fared better than he'd feared. When the telephone rang, he hoped it wouldn't be Mary Margaret in tears, but it was Constance Remson.
"I want to host a small cocktail party on Wednesday evening and invite anyone who could possibly be a suspect. I'll include some others from the symphony so our motive won't be obvious, other than to remember Matteo. We won't be following a movie script, but I really feel we should try to shake out the murderess."
After the night he'd had, he welcomed the diversion. "All right, I'll call the women I've spoken to about Matteo. Will you ask Sean Dermot to bring Veronica?"
"Yes, they're on my list. Bring your girlfriend. I'd like to meet her."
"Her mother is in town, so...."
"Bring her too, there's plenty of room, and we never run out of booze, which makes for the perfect party."
"Fine, I'll ask them both, and let the others I've spoken with know." As he hung up, he feared Matilda would refuse to attend a party full of strangers and make Mary Margaret feel so guilty about leaving her mother at home alone she wouldn't go either.
* * *
Tuesday evening, Joe told Mary Margaret about Constance's party. Her eyes lit with glee. "This is just what I wanted, a party like the one in Song of the Thin Man! This will be so exciting, Mother, and Joe might even unmask a murderess. You'll come with us, won't you?"
Matilda raked Joe with a skeptical glance, and then smiled. "I wouldn't miss it."
* * *
Wednesday evening, the stately Remson home was brightly lit with a welcoming party glow. Red-jacketed valets met those arriving, and Joe handed over his keys. He helped Matilda from the car, Mary Margaret had insisted her mother ride in the front seat. He'd expected them to be impressed by the Remson estate, but other than smile, they didn't react with astonishment or even mild surprise.
Constance stood just inside the front door in a stylish black dress, ready for an evening that would include a memorial to Matteo. Joe introduced his guests, and she responded with an enthusiastic grasp of their hands. "It's so nice to meet you two. Joe is such a resourceful detective, I've come to rely on him."
Mary Margaret reacted with a slightly raised brow. While Joe often told her about his cases, he withheld the names and descriptions of his clients. Perhaps he should have mentioned Constance was an attractive young woman before they'd arrived. It was too late to remedy the omission now. Instead, he led them into the living room, where twenty early guests were gathered. A string trio grouped by the baby grand piano were playing charming classical melodies.
Paloma Val Verde smiled as she approached them. She'd chosen a black dress, another from a Mexican boutique on Olvera Street. The bodice and sleeves were embroidered with colorful flowers. She'd piled her hair atop her head and added fresh roses in her customary tribute to her idol, Frida Kahlo.
Joe introduced Paloma as an artist, and was grateful when Matilda inquired about her work, because the young woman could talk about art for hours. A waiter came by to take drink orders, and another soon passed by with sumptuous hors d'oeuvres.
Gunnar Ingvild was easily the tallest man in the room. When the conductor turned away from the fireplace, an easel holding a large portrait of Matteo da Milano dominated the front of the room. Lily Montell stood beside it. In one of her lily-splashed dresses, she looked her elegant self. She caught Joe's eye and nodded a silent greeting.
Andrea Donovan, the pretty blonde from Mildred Street in Venice Beach, headed for Joe as soon as she stepped into the living room. In a tailored black suit, Joe bet her sister wore to the bank,
and her roots newly bleached, she appeared to be a competent professional. He introduced her.
"Joe is the only one I know here. I wanted to come, but this isn't what I expected."
"How so?" Mary Margaret asked.
"It's a party, and I thought it would be a more respectful gathering. We're here to remember Matteo, aren't we?"
"Yes, but Miss Remson has her own way of doing things," Joe remarked, and Mary Margaret responded with a questioning glance. Andrea was cute, but he thought it must have been the mention of Constance that had bothered his fiancée. He anticipated a long conversation about the evening later, and he'd rely on truthful, innocent explanations.
"How are things going for you, Andrea?" he asked.
"Pretty good, actually. I've been to one interview at the bank where my sister works, and I go back for the second one next Tuesday. Once we had a reliable babysitter for Daniel, I didn't waste a minute sitting around at home." She turned to Paloma. "That is such a beautiful dress."
"Thank you, I'm an artist, and love colorful clothes."
Paloma drew Andrea into her conversation with Matilda, and Mary Margaret stepped to Joe's other side. "It looks as though there's a lot about your cases you aren't telling me," she whispered.
"I never bore you with tedious details." He hoped she'd let him off with that, and then Lily joined them.
She extended her hand to Mary Margaret. "I'm Lily Montell."
When she didn't add more, Joe introduced his fiancée. "The last time we spoke you mentioned possibly going to college."
"I did, but I still can't decide upon a major."
"Have you considered nursing?" Mary Margaret asked.
Lily certainly possessed the talent to cheer up patients as no other nurse would, and Joe left them to discuss the benefits of a nursing career. He edged his way around the increasingly crowded room. He thought the serious looking men were probably from the LA Philharmonic. He approached one such fellow and woman standing in the corner, introduced himself and asked how they knew Matteo.
