David Bishop - Matt Kile 04 - Find My Little Sister

by David Bishop

  I introduced myself. We shook hands. Her come-on smile plus her curves totaled up to wow! As for me, if my smile could walk it would have stumbled.

  When she turned sideways and came onto the stairs our noses, and more, bumped as she edged past me. I had come to surprise her, to catch her off guard. Instead, she had surprised me.

  I followed her yellow and tan parts up the stairs while trying to maintain my composure, and remember what I had come to find out.

  Once inside, I said, “Let’s start fresh. My name’s Kile. Matt Kile.”

  “You’re not exactly a small man are you?”

  “I tried to be. It just didn’t work out.”

  She didn’t offer me a tour, but a quick look around revealed she had an obvious flair for decorating: excellent contemporary furniture nicely accessorized with pillows and paintings. She didn’t give me a tour, but I could see the kitchen was off the living/dining room, and she had a patio with an unobstructed view of the Pacific, complete with a space heater, surf and gull sounds. And a swing, not at all like the rope and tire hanging from a tree that my brother and I shared as kids. This was a small swing suspended by white nylon rope, with a padded seat adorned by a pleasantly sized impression that told me Susan sat there often.

  She brought out a pitcher of iced tea, poured two glasses, and sat on the lower half of her yellow two-piece swimsuit. The upper yellow piece—I didn’t know the right name for that kind of top, oysters on the half shell came to mind—but I had never seen an oysters of that size jiggle like that. Actually I had never seen oysters of that size, jiggling or stationary; but I digress. The half shell nearly disappeared when she cinched her crossed arms under her breasts. Her body reminded me of her stepmother, Clarice, their playful sensualities also being very similar. I’m proud to say I also remembered the first question I came to ask.

  I took a small sip of tea and steadied myself the way men always have in such circumstance, I glanced at her cleavage. It’s my theory that women who show cleavage want men to look, just not to leer. Men can allow their thoughts to linger, just not the looks. I didn’t disappoint her or myself; the look didn’t linger, but my thoughts did. Then I swam deeper into the water that had washed me onto her shore. “Tell me about your relationship with your stepmother.”

  “She’s got a great little pooch. That Asta is a real sweetie pie. Where’s the dog now?”

  “Asta is with me.”

  “With you?”

  “Yeah. I’ve never had a dog. Always figured that one day I’d get a man’s dog, but it’s just until Clarice gets out.”

  “Gets out! That bitch is a murderer, or is it a murderess? She married Papa for his money. When Papa wised up to that fact and decided to drop her out of his will, she killed him.”

  “She could have filed for a divorce,” I countered. “California is a community property state. That presumes a 50-50 split of assets.”

  “Presumes?” She huffed, and then crossed her legs, leaving her top foot bobbing up and down the way I’d seen lots of women foot bob. And come to think of it, I’ve never seen a man foot bob; it must be part of those differences folks talk about. “The signed prenuptial,” she said, “establishes that all Papa’s assets were his sole and separate property. In it, she agreed not to make any claim challenging that point. In return, Papa agreed that she would get a minimum of one million as long as she stayed with him until he died or ended the marriage. The prenuptial also acknowledged he could use his will to leave her more if he chose to, but that he could change his will anytime at his sole discretion. His executed will stipulates Clarice will get a full third along with Charlie and me. If Papa took her out of the will, she would be back to the one mil in the prenup. That’s your motive: about four million dollars.”

  “You sound like a lawyer.” I said, while watching her reverse the top gam in her crossed pair. The new top foot was not a bobber.

  “And you strike me as a man pretty much at ease with himself.”

  “I know who I am, what I believe in. But you haven’t answered me. I asked if you were a lawyer.”

  “No, you didn’t. You said I sounded like a lawyer. That’s a statement, not a question.”

  “That sounded like a lawyer, too. Are you an attorney?”

  “I graduated from law school more than a year ago; I started later in life. Since then I’ve not taken a job. Papa provides my brother and me with an annual stipend. With that and some part time work, I get by. I’ll likely take serious employment someday. Not sure if it’ll be the law. Just haven’t had to decide, I guess.”

  Actually I already knew that Susan had gone to law school. Clarice told me that Susan had attended the U.C.L.A. School of Law, but Clarice wasn’t certain if Susan had graduated. I checked. She had, with honors.

  Susan uncrossed her legs, slid out of her sandals, and pulled her feet up onto the couch sideways, turning herself toward me. I waited patiently, watching the entire maneuver and could not have imagined it being done with more … how should I describe it, style?

  “What kind of part time work?”

  “I work at a few gentlemen’s clubs in the area. Strictly fill in … Ah, yes. The look. Your middle-class judgment.”

  “No. No. That’s your business.”

  “I saw your expression. You pulled it back, but it had already come. Just for your information, I don’t hook. I give it away to whomever I choose. At the clubs, I do some pole, frankly pole is really healthy work. I also do laps, mostly younger men wanting a new experience, and you middle-aged guys.”

  “Ouch. That should even us up after my look, as you called it.”

  “Do you want to change the subject?”

  “I wish I had a few minutes ago.” We shared one of those brief, polite laughs. “Tell me about your mother.”

  “I’m not clear on how that is relevant,” she said in mild protest, “but I don’t mind. Our mother was Iraqi. Charlie and I are twins.”

  “Did your dad live in Iraq when you two were born?”

  “No. Papa made business trips to Baghdad. I don’t know all that much about it. He went there a few times a year. That’s how he met our mother. I hate to admit it, but I don’t even know her name. Papa told me once when we were young, but I just don’t remember.”

  “Were you raised in Baghdad?”

  “No. When we were babies, Papa brought us to France where we grew up. He had a wife in Paris, and the three of us, Papa, Charlie and I, lived with her, and Papa continued his business trips to the Middle East. Ten years ago Papa divorced his French wife, and we moved to the U.S. and became citizens.”

  “Where did your father meet Clarice?”

  “Here. America,” she said, then narrowed it still further, “Long Beach. Rumor is she worked as an escort, but in fairness, we don’t know that for certain. Ask her. She’s your client. Although, I suspect, you’ve been formally retained by her attorney, this Fisher guy.”

  “You know, you two, Clarice and you, look a bit alike aside from your slightly darker complexion.”

  “It’s okay to say what you mean: our bodies are very similar. We wear the same size clothes. She’s a C-cup, I’m a D, other than that we’re the same. We have never shared clothing, however. May I ask you something, Mr. Kile?”

  “Sure, but drop the Mr. Kile.”

  “Matthew?”

  “I prefer Matt.” Although the way she said ‘Matthew’ sounded a lot hotter than when Fidge said it.

  “All right, Matt. Why are you helping that bitch? She murdered Papa.”

  “She’s only accused, not convicted. You know that, being a law school grad.”

  “Technically speaking that’s true, but there’s no doubt. I’ve explained her motive. So, why are you helping her?” Susan again crossed her arms below what she had described as D cups. I let my look linger, breaking the rule. She reached over, put her fingers under my chin and raised my stare back to her eyes.

  “She was with me that night,” I said, “early into t
he next morning. I don’t believe she did it.”

  “I see.” She raised her eyebrows this time. “You two have a thing?”

  “Clarice had come down to talk with me, scared someone might kill your father. She was frightened. I tried to console her.” I went on to tell Susan about the call for Gar—Jar—it would all come out anyway.

  “She came down after Papa had gone to bed for the night,” Susan said, continuing her accusatory tone. “I can imagine how you consoled her, how she would want you to console her.”

  “Nothing happened that night.”

  “But you two have shared the sheets. Clarice loves to get it on. She told me so one night when we were both a bit soused. Papa knew she did, and he understood she had needs he could no longer fulfill. Still, she was always there for him when he could. I give her that much.”

  “When they first moved in, I thought your father was her father.”

  “Hey. It would have been out of character for her not to seduce you. Matt, you’re too much a hunk for her to pass up.”

  Susan got up, stepped around the coffee table and faced me teasingly while leaning forward to refill our tea glasses.

  I crossed my legs, the effect being nothing like when she had crossed hers. I added a throat clearing. She sat back down, trumping both my leg crossing and throat clearing.

  “Okay,” I said, “we’ve established where I was the night your father was killed. Where were you?”

  “I danced at the club until it closed at two. Right after that my brother called. A few of the other girls and I got out of there about two-thirty and went to an all-night diner for some early breakfast. Working on a pole can build up an appetite.”

  I imagined it would for her; for me I’d work up the appetite watching her work the pole.

  “Where was your brother that night?”

  “All I know is he was home when he called me. He must have been out on his deck because I could hear his wind chimes. Let’s be a little less serious for a minute here. Can I get you something stronger than ice tea? I’ve got most anything you’d want.”

  “Irish whiskey?”

  “No. I’m sorry. I’m going to get some wine. Join me?”

  “Sure. That’d be nice.”

  “Its white wine. Okay?”

  I nodded, although I had never really known if white wine was for drinkers or people who wished to appear to be sophisticated drinkers.

  She came back a moment later carrying two stemmed wine glasses. The wine was obviously cold; the glasses were dressed in condensation. “Are you Irish?” she asked.

  “With a name like Matthew Kile, what’s to doubt? But if you want proof, I’ll let you pet my leprechaun.”

  “I’ve never heard it called that before. I guess it’s small.” She frowned. “All leprechauns are small, or so I hear.”

  “Not too many Irishmen go around showing each other their leprechauns, so I don’t really know how mine might compare with other leprechauns.”

  “Will it stand at attention and take orders?”

  “Willie sometimes has a mind of his own, but Willie lives to serve, my good woman.”

  “Willie, huh, I guess yours must be special to have a name.”

  “I’m going to change the subject now, if that’s all right?”

  “Sure. We can come back to Willie at any time. As you said, Willie lives to serve; I assume that includes damsels in distress.”

  “The story is that your dad was a broker of illegal weapons. True?”

  “He did some of that, years ago. He quit before we left France. Not that quitting made his doing it okay, but it does make it old news.”

  She stood again and went to the glass sliding door. “The sun hits the water every day about this time, reflecting into my living room.” She used two pull chains. The first drew the vertical Venetians across the glass; the second chain angled them closed.

  “The way I see it,” I said, watching her walk slowly back to the couch, “it’s possible, if not likely that someone from those days killed your father. Someone who wanted to be sure the details of certain weapons deals didn’t come out.”

  “Could be.” She sat back down, again curling her legs onto the cushion. “But I don’t believe it, all that’s back at least ten years. Anyone concerned about that stuff would’ve killed Papa a long time ago. I’m telling you Clarice killed him for the oldest of reasons, money.”

  “The way I hear it, your dad called your brother in the middle of the night to tell him he planned to cut Clarice out of his will, and then your brother called you. Is this correct?”

  “Yes. That was the call I told you I got from Charlie just after the club closed.”

  “Your brother still lives here in town, right?”

  “A few miles from here, on Ocean Boulevard, I can give you the address?”

  “I have it.”

  Susan escorted me to the door where she moved in close. “Have you been coming on to me, Mr. Kile?”

  “Whatever made you think that, Ms. Talmadge?”

  “Susan.”

  “Whatever made you think that, Susan?”

  “The interest you and Willie were taking in my bathing suit. Would you like to come onto me, Mr. Kile?”

  I moved back one step. “I’m trying to do my job.”

  “I don’t know if I was all that helpful, but hopefully I improved your working conditions.”

  “Yes you did, and I thank you for that.”

  She stepped forward, erasing my step back and held my gaze with her own. Then she kissed me, not the grab-and-squeeze kind, more gentle, our bodies touching, but she kept her hands on my shoulders.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Failing, if you can’t recognize what I’m doing.”

  “Why?”

  “I like you.”

  “Everybody likes everybody when they’re kissing.”

  Note to Readers

  I would love to hear from you now that you have finishing reading the story. I can be reached by email at david@davidbishopbooks.com. Please, no attachments, I won’t open them. For those of you who write or who aspire to write, I encourage you to continue writing until your prose lives on the pages the way it lives in your mind. I promise to personally reply to all emails from readers. You invested some money and many hours reading my story, I would enjoy hearing from you and welcome the opportunity to say thank you.

  Information on all my other books can be found at www.davidbishopbooks.com. The working titles for my future stories are shown near the front of this novel.

  Contact

  www.davidbishopbooks.com

  david@davidbishopbooks.com

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  The complete Who Murdered Garson Talmadge, also The Original Alibi, the second Matt Kile Mystery, are available both in digital eBook and print editions. The third Matt Kile Mystery, Money & Murder, a Matt Kile Mystery in a short story is available only in digital eBook. This story, Find My Little Sister is the fourth in the Matt Kile Mystery series.

  Thank you for your interest in my writings. I’d love to hear your thoughts on any of my stories, and please consider posting a reader review on Amazon and any other sites where you post book reviews. david@davidbishopbooks.com

  Novels by David Bishop

  For current information on new releases visit:

  www.davidbishopbooks.com

  Mysteries currently available:

  The Beholder, a Maddie Richards Mystery

  Who Murdered Garson Talmadge, a Matt Kile Mystery

  The Woman, a story of Linda Darby, an ordinary woman facing extraordinary circumstances

  The Third Coincidence, a Jack McCall Mystery

  The Blackmail Club, a Jack McCall Mystery

  The Original Alibi, a Matt Kile Mystery

  Money & Murder, a Matt Kile Mystery Short Story

  Death of a Bankster, a Maddie Richards Mystery

  Love & Other
Four-letter Words: a Maybe Murder, a collection of seven short stories

  Possible Future Working Titles

  Home Town Secrets, a Linda Darby Mystery

  The Red Hat Murders, a Maddie Richards Mystery

  Case of the Missing Mistress, a Matt Kile Mystery

  The Schroeder Protocol, a Jack McCall Mystery

  Murder by Choice

  The Parish Executioner, a Matt Kile Mystery

  www.davidbishopbooks.com

  david@davidbishopbooks.com