by P. J. Conn
"Is this why you brought me here, to make ridiculous accusations you can't prove? I still don't believe Faye could have found a gun somewhere and shot Pearl, and I wish you'd stop referring to her as my girlfriend. We were barely acquainted. Aren't the police interested in facts? Your inventive suppositions are absurd. Am I free to go?"
"In a minute. Let me continue my 'inventive suppositions' just a moment longer. Men sometimes lose their tempers and hit their wife harder than they'd intended. Did you kill Faye when you learned what she'd done and dispose of her body before you called me?"
Horrified to be accused of murder, Hal drew in a deep breath and posed a ready alternative. "Of course, not. If Faye came to the Golden Bear, she might have seen whomever shot Pearl. He could have taken her with him rather than allow her to identify him to the police. That's why we can't find her, she's the murderer's hostage. The killer has to be someone who knew Pearl. Why aren't you investigating that angle rather than badgering me?" He considered mentioning he'd hired Joe Ezell to find Faye since the police couldn't, but Lynch would swiftly follow that lead to Faye's tie to the private investigator and provide her with a reason to kill Pearl. He avoided that trap.
Lynch stared at Hal a long moment. "You may have come up with a logical theory, but that doesn't mean it's the truth. Did you have an insurance policy on your wife?"
"I'm in the insurance business, so of course, I did, but it isn't as large as mine."
The detective flashed a knowing smile. "You see, we've lots more to discuss, but it can wait. The next time we talk, you might want to bring an attorney."
"You might want to bring a detective with a some common sense." Hal strode out of the station and hailed a cab. He could call one of the California West attorneys, but their field was contract rather than criminal law. He returned to his office and walked in smiling as though he'd been out for a pleasant ride rather than forced to endure a most unwelcome interrogation.
Lorraine Adams looked surprised to see him. "Did they have any news?"
"Unfortunately, no. Take a long lunch if you like, we probably won't get much done today."
His secretary smiled. "Bullock's is having a sale."
"Fine, go and look for bargains." He entered his office and loosened his tie. He hadn't been back for more than five minutes when George Sharp, the vice president for sales, called him.
"What's going on there, Marten? Your wife's photo is in the LA Times, and policemen are strolling through your office?"
"My wife is missing, thank you for your concern," Hal responded curtly. "The police are investigating, and they aren't disrupting the office's business."
"Well, see that they don't and hurry up and find your wife."
"Yes, sir." Hal hung up ready to go to the sale at Bullock's himself. There hadn't been even a hint of concern in his boss's voice. Wait until he learned Faye might be linked to a murder, would be linked if Detective Lynch got his way. The man was right, he did need a criminal attorney before his situation grew any worse.
He wondered if Joe Ezell could recommend one, and then remembered he'd kept Lou King's card and figured a bail bondsmen could undoubtedly give him names. He reached for the phone.
* * *
Lou King was already at the Golden Bear Lounge when Hal walked in. It was the last place he wanted to meet, but Lou insisted it was perfect. Hal took the stool beside the bail bondsman, and Mitch brought him a beer. He took a sip, and licked the foam from his lips.
"I'm afraid my wife, her name's Faye, may have seen who shot Pearl and could have become his hostage," he confided softly. "The detective on the case suspects Faye shot Pearl, and he's accusing me of killing Faye and hiding the body. I don't want to speak to him again without an attorney present who'll shut down his speculation before it grows any more absurd."
"They let you walk out of the station. That means they're grabbing for straws." Lou slid him a business card.
Hal read the name, "Gladys Swartz? Is she any good?"
"She's terrific and pursues acquittals with the force of a bloodhound drunk on a scent. Have you ever tried to walk one of those dogs? They go where they're going and you can only follow along and hope you'll somehow get back home."
"I'll remember that," Hal responded. Mitch drew close as he polished a glass, but Hal didn't care if he overheard.
"Good, there are plenty of other dogs." Lou gestured for Mitch to give him another round. "None of us knew you even had a wife until last Thursday night. Why would the police believe that she killed Pearl or that you killed her?"
"Lunacy?" Hal answered. Every time he recalled the conversation at the police station, it struck him as even sillier than it had been originally. "Does this happen often?"
"All the time," Lou swore with a raised hand. "Give Gladys a call, and ask for her advice. You'll have to pay for it, but she's well worth it."
Mitch rested an elbow on the bar and leaned in close. "Detectives have been here asking about you, but I didn't tell them anything other than what you said last Thursday night. You haven't been coming in long, and you haven't caused any trouble. I couldn't tell them anything about Pearl other than that she came in, ordered martinis and left as alone as she came. If they're going to blame her killing on a housewife who'd never met her, they must not have much of a case. I don't see it going to court."
Detective Lynch's accusations were flying so wildly, Hal wasn't sure what would be believed. "If they can't find Faye, there will be no trial." He took a long swig of beer. "Lou, what happens to Pearl's body if no family is found to claim it?"
"You're worried about her body?" the bail bondsman asked, clearly amazed.
"Does that sound cold with my wife missing?" Hal asked. "I'm not prepared to pay for a funeral for a woman I barely knew. I just wondered what the usual procedure was."
"Unclaimed bodies are cremated."
Hal glanced down the bar and saw the man with the puffy white eyebrows, and several men he didn't recognize. It was Monday night though, not Thursday, so it was no wonder it was a different crowd. He didn't feel like staying.
"Thanks, Lou. I'll call Miss Swartz in the morning."
"It's Mrs. Swartz," Lou offered. "She was widowed during the war, and now concentrates solely on the law."
"That's exactly what I need." Hal told Mitch good-bye and left to catch the next Red Car home.
* * *
Hal scheduled an appointment late Tuesday afternoon so he could leave the office early rather than come in late. He'd expected Mrs. Swartz to be a stocky middle-aged woman who'd wear brown gabardine skirt suits, tightly laced oxfords, and frown at him over her thick glasses. He was wrong on all counts.
Gladys Swartz caught her long blonde hair in a tortoise shell clip at her nape. Had she worn it loose, she could have doubled for Veronica Lake. Her black dress was simply cut and fit her slender figure superbly. She wore only a hint of perfume, but it was a haunting, spicy scent. Her eyes were a vivid blue and held not a particle of sympathy as she listened to his story. That much he had anticipated. He concentrated on the facts: Faye had hired Joe Ezell, learned about Pearl, and now Pearl was dead and Faye had disappeared.
"You haven't been charged with any crime, so what do you expect me to do about your current mess?" she asked.
"Whatever you can," Hal responded. Her law firm's building wasn't far from where California West was located, and it was an easy walk. The office was decorated in dark woods and furniture covered in forest green leather. The bookcases were filled with legal tomes. The top of her mahogany desk was cleared of any files or papers, and she didn't take any notes.
"Lou King recommended you highly," Hal continued.
"That's very kind of him." She leaned forward, rested her arms on the desk, and laced her fingers together. "From what you say, all Detective Lynch has is imaginative conjecture. He won't come after you again until he finds your wife's body."
A sharp wince of pain shot through him. "Please don't say that," he countered. "She co
uld be a murderer's hostage, which is awful, but I don't want to believe she's dead. She's only twenty-six, and far too nice a person to have shot anyone."
Gladys leaned back in her chair. "You keep believing that, and we'll think of her as missing until she turns up. Did you engage in any noisy arguments your neighbors might report?"
"No, never, we got along every well. We love each other."
"Love," she emphasized.
"Yes, we fell in love and married last summer. We treated each other respectfully, and I can't recall ever arguing about anything."
"Nothing at all?"
"No, nothing," Hal stressed. "Does that sound unlikely to you?"
"Yes, but that's not really the point, this is your story."
He glanced out the window, and found the coming sunset had filled the sky with a glorious pink haze. Even that spectacular beauty left him untouched. "I'd appreciate any advice you can give me, anything at all."
"You look completely lost, Mr. Marten."
"Will you charge me for that observation?"
She laughed, and then apologized. "I'm sorry. You're caught in a ghastly situation, and if you want me to be there if Lynch calls you into the station again, I will be."
"Thank you." He meant to stand, but sat just a moment longer.
"Do you have dinner plans?" she asked.
"How could I?"
"Fine, let's go to dinner and think how you can avoid being charged with murder."
Hal wasn't hungry, but going to dinner with Gladys Swartz was the best offer he'd had all day. "Fine, let's go." He finally found his legs and stood, and she came out from behind her desk.
"There's an Italian place just up the street that makes the most delicious spaghetti. It always lifts my spirits when I'm blue." She removed her jacket from the back of her chair and walked ahead of him to the door.
"How about a deep indigo?" Hal asked, and then laughed in spite of himself. "I'm sorry. I only slept a few hours last night, and I'm getting punchy."
"Then you definitely need to eat." She paused to tell the firm's receptionist that she was leaving for the day. The young woman took a quick glance at Hal and dipped her head to hide her smile.
Hal didn't notice. He followed Gladys to the elevator and remained silent as they rode down to the first floor. "I may not be very good company," he announced as they reached the street.
"This is a strategy meeting, Mr. Marten, I don't expect to be entertained."
"Yes, of course. I'm sorry."
"Are you always so agreeable?"
"I try to be."
"So you'll avoid an argument rather than speak up?"
Hal didn't like where the conversation was going. "It depends on the situation and the subject. Some issues aren't worth pursuing."
"Excellent answer." She paused outside the Italian restaurant and gave him a chance to glance at the menu posted in the window. "Everything's good."
He'd taken Faye out for Italian food a few Saturdays ago, and the memory overwhelmed him with sadness now. "I do have to eat," he reminded himself and pulled open the door. The interior was softly lit, but it was a friendly place with red and white checked tablecloths, not somewhere a man would take a woman he wanted to romance.
The host greeted Gladys by name and ushered them to a table in a quiet corner where they could talk. "Thank you, Lloyd."
Hal waited until he'd walked away. "Lloyd doesn't sound like an Italian name."
"No, it doesn't, but he comes from a large family and maybe his parents just ran out of names."
"Probably." Hal picked up the menu and was amused by the descriptions of the selections offered. "Are the ravioli truly 'pillows of perfection'?"
"Try them and see," Gladys responded. "I'd rather not have wine tonight, but please order yourself a glass if you'd like."
"It wouldn't help," Hal answered. He had done all right in the office. He'd complimented his best salesmen and urged on the others who were in a slump. His head hurt, but it had all day. "Do you have any aspirin?" he asked their waiter.
"Of course, sir, let me get you some." He quickly returned with a little flat metal tin containing a dozen. "You may keep this, of course."
"Thank you." Hal swallowed three with some water and slipped the little box into his jacket pocket. Gladys ordered spaghetti and an antipasto salad, and he ordered a salad and ravioli.
He reached for one of the thin breadsticks in the glass container on the table. "My wife is a horrible cook," he revealed without realizing he'd spoken aloud.
"Did you eat out often?"
"Not often enough. I shouldn't have said that."
"No, you ought to tell me everything you can think of about your wife so you won't be surprised if you're questioned again. You didn't argue over her cooking?"
"No, I didn't want to hurt her feelings, but I should have signed her up for some cooking lessons rather than kept quiet about it."
Gladys tilted her head and studied him with a gently assessing gaze. "You seem like a really nice guy, Mr. Marten. That must annoy the detective to no end. He has to believe you're hiding something, because most of the people he deals with are."
Hal spread his napkin over his lap. "I'm no different. I failed to tell him Faye had hired a detective, and I hadn't told Faye I'd been stopping by the Golden Bear Lounge. I usually stayed at work later on Thursday night, maybe thirty minutes or forty-five to have everything ready for the early sales meeting Friday. I stopped at the bar on a complete whim, and went back a few times. I could never have anticipated becoming a near witness to a murder, or that anyone would ever suspect Faye of committing it."
"But she'd learned about Pearl LaFosse from Joe Ezell. She didn't accuse you of stepping out on her?"
"No, she seemed somewhat preoccupied, but I'd no idea that she'd hired a detective until I found his card after she'd gone missing. No matter how I look at it, by stopping at the Golden Bear, I pushed the first domino, and sent the whole line collapsing one by one."
Gladys took a breadstick, snapped it in two and took a bite of the shorter end. "I used to line up dominos with my big brother, so I get your point. Blame isn't a productive emotion, Mr. Marten. Let's stick with the facts and keep our feelings in neutral."
"Does numb count?"
"Numb will do for now." She leaned back as their waiter served their salads. She jabbed a forkful and chewed it thoroughly before she spoke again. "I'm feeling more optimistic already, how about you?"
He layered small slices of cheese and salami on his fork and added a bit of lettuce. "Too soon to tell, but thanks for suggesting dinner. I don't remember eating lunch."
"Stick to your usual routine," she advised. "You'll find comfort in it."
"I doubt I should be at work, but I couldn't bear to stay at home another day and wait for Faye to show up or for the phone to ring."
"No, clearly you're better off at work if you can handle it."
"I can," he swore, but he was merely going through the motions. He finished his salad and took another breadstick. "I like these. They're fresh and crisp."
"They are." She smiled at him before eating the last of her salad. "You kept going back to the Golden Bear. Was it to see Pearl?"
"Not at first. I caught only a glimpse of her before she left, but she was elegantly dressed and looked out of place, which struck me as odd. I went back to the bar because taking a half hour for myself once a week felt good. Once I'd spoken to Pearl, and she wasn't easy to talk with, it became a challenge. I didn't mean to take it anywhere. If fact, the night she was murdered, I told her I wasn't coming back."
"Was she was no longer a challenge?"
"No, I finally realized it was stupid to pursue her when Faye was waiting for me at home. It was just a game, and I didn't want to take it any further."
"Was Pearl disappointed?"
"No, not at all. She wished me luck and walked out the door and was shot. She always checked her watch and left before our conversations ever grew lengthy. She w
ouldn't tell me where she was going in such a hurry, or whom she was meeting. I wish she had, because it might lead us to whoever murdered her."
"That's good," Gladys interjected. "It shows there was nothing serious between you two. Your wife may have found out about Pearl, but it didn't mean anything and was already over."
Hal waited until the waiter had served their entrees to respond. "But Faye wouldn't have known that." He tasted his ravioli, and it was as delicious as promised. "This is awfully good."
"I told you so." She wound her spaghetti on her fork to move it gracefully to her mouth without having to slurp in the last noodle. "It sounds as though it would have been completely out of character for Faye to have shot Pearl."
"That's what I've told Lynch, but it hasn't kept him from believing otherwise."
"That's because he doesn't know your wife, and you do. Would you describe her as outgoing, or somewhat shy?"
"Shy, she'd smile and be pleasant, but she wasn't the type to strike up a conversation with someone on the street. Successful salesmen have that knack, the instant appearance of friendship, and they can talk about anything with anyone. No one would ever hire Faye for a sales job, because she'd probably hide in the stockroom."
"Was she ever loud or confrontational?"
"Never. She went along with whatever I wanted to do, and I chose things she'd want to do too."
"So your only complaint was about her cooking?"
Hal kept eating while he considered his answer. "Yes, and I never spoke it aloud."
"You sound like a prince of a husband."
He looked up at her. "Is that bad?"
"It's unbelievable. Did she have complaints about you? Did you leave the bathroom a mess, wet towels on the floor, the toilet seat up, that kind of thing?"
"No, Lynch thought our house looked too neat to be lived in."
For a moment, she concentrated on her dinner, and then looked up. "Did it remind him of a set for a play?" she asked.
"No, a furniture store display room was how he put it."
She took a sip of her water. "That's downright rude, and you didn't react?"
