by P. J. Conn
"This is all wonderful, Aunt Millie, but I'm ashamed by how little I knew about my wife before she died."
Millie reached over to pat his arm. "It wasn't your fault. It sounds as though you two were happy together. Try to concentrate on that."
His memories of Faye were now as mixed up as their salad, but he thanked her for the thought. Bessie served lemon sherbet for dessert with sugar cookies. When it was time to go, he thanked Millie for everything. "Do you mind if I take the suitcase with me?" he asked.
"No, it's yours. I'd forgotten it was here. If I find anything else Renee left behind, I'll give you a call. You take care now."
He kissed her cheek. "You too, Aunt Millie." He went into the living room to gather Renee's things and repack the suitcase. When he picked up the copy of Little Women, her bookmark slipped out, and he scooped it from the floor. It was a business card with a psychiatrist's name, Dr. Andrew Soule, and he nearly shouted for joy. If the man would talk about a former patient, and why wouldn't he now that Renee was dead? He tossed everything into the suitcase and carried it out to his car.
Once home, he dialed the doctor's office, hoped the number was still current, and that Dr. Soule didn't play golf on Tuesday afternoon. A woman answered and in a soft mellow tone offered to make him an appointment in the following month. "No, my late wife was one of Dr. Soule's patients, and I need to speak with him about her as soon as possible. It's an urgent matter, truly it is."
"Urgent of not, Dr. Soule is attending a conference in London, and he won't be flying home until the weekend. He'll need to see his regular patients next week, not take on anyone new."
"I'm not a prospective patient," Hal forced himself to speak in a normal tone rather than shout. "This is about a murder investigation, and his information is vital. When will he be in his office?"
"Next Tuesday, but his schedule is full."
"I'll come early, or at the end of his day, but I must speak with him as soon as possible."
Perhaps the woman was used to handling excitable patients, and she continued in the same soothing tone, "Would you care to leave your name? I'll tell the doctor you called."
"It's Hal Marten, and my wife was Renee Bell."
"Renee? Why didn't you say so? I'll have him call you as soon as he arrives home."
"You remember Renee?"
"We don't discuss our patients over the phone, Mr. Marten."
"No, of course, not." He left his telephone number. If he didn't hear from Dr. Soule by Tuesday, he'd sit in his office until he finally became available.
He called Gladys next and told her about picking up the suitcase from his new Aunt Millie. "I found Faye's psychiatrist, but he'll be out of the country until next week. He ought to know far more about her than I've been able to discover."
"If I can work it into my schedule, I'd like to go with you. Did you call Det ective Lynch?"
"I did, but frankly, he appeared more bored than interested in a reported break-in and didn't stay long. I'm not sure he believed it actually happened. How's Mr. Cuddles?"
"He made it through the night without a single meow of complaint. I placed his pillow on a table by a front window, and he'll have his usual entertainment today."
"Thank you." He wished he could think of something more to say, or a reason to get together before Dr. Soule returned home, but his mind went blank. "Good-bye then."
"Hal, you need to get out of the house, go shopping, go to the movies, don't sit there and wait for additional evidence to fall into your lap."
Surprised by her scolding tone, he quickly defended himself, "I went out knocking on doors to find Aunt Millie, and that contact led me to the psychiatrist. I'm not just sitting here working crossword puzzles in my underwear."
"Of course, you're not," she replied. "I'm sorry. It's been a difficult day. Want to meet for dinner?"
Perhaps she felt sorry for him, and he didn't want her sympathy. His first impulse was to say no, but he didn't argue with himself for long. "We'll talk about my case?"
"Of course, don't we always? Come to my house so you can check on Mr. Cuddles."
He made a note of her address. "What can I bring?"
"Ice cream if you like."
The memory of how Pearl had described her favorite ice cream in a seductive purr was almost more than he could bear. He leaned back against the wall. "Do you like chocolate, or chocolate chip?"
"Of course, who doesn't? I've never thought vanilla was worth eating."
"It was Faye's favorite," he replied softly.
"I'm sorrow, I didn't mean to insult her."
"I thought the same thing. See you later." He hung up the telephone and left to get ice cream rather than sit at home and analyze their conversation until his head exploded.
* * *
Gladys's home in West LA was a one-story English Tudor design with a steeply pitched roof and ornamental half-timbering. The lead-paned front window glowed with a welcoming light, and a deep flower border added to the home's charm.
Hal arrived carrying both double fudge and chocolate chip ice cream from Aunt Lucy's Ice Cream Parlor. Gladys unpacked the bag and put the ice cream into her refrigerator's freezer.
"I love Aunt Lucy's," she exclaimed. "I haven't been there in years, but I'll bet it's still the best."
"It is. This is a pretty house. It looks as though it could have come from an English village."
"Thank you, that's why I love it. I haven't owned it long, and it's furnished with odds and ends. I haven't had time to worry over the décor, and there's been no rush."
She showed him into the living room where Mr. Cuddles was stationed on his pillow peering out at the street. "I'm sure he's missed you," she said.
"Are you kidding? He probably won't remember who I am." He gave the beautiful cat a playful scratch behind the ears and Cuddles leaned into his hand.
"See, he knows you."
"Only because I had the can-opener," Hal argued. "It would probably be best if you kept him."
"It's not something we need to decide tonight. I baked a chicken. It's one of the few things I do well." She picked up Mr. Cuddles to feed him on the back porch.
"I love baked chicken," Hal answered. He followed her into the kitchen and kept out of her way as she fed the cat and served their plates. "The mortuary called this afternoon. They want me to pick-up Faye's ashes tomorrow, but I don't know what I'll do with them. I don't want to keep them in an urn on a mantel."
"The war turned my husband into ashes in the Pacific, but I wouldn't have wanted him on the mantel either. Is there someplace she loved where you could scatter her ashes?"
As soon as they'd sat down at her dining table, he apologized, "I'm sorry. Ashes don't make for pleasant dinner conversation. I shouldn't have bothered you with them."
She savored a bite of butter drenched mashed potatoes before replying. "Hal, we wouldn't be acquainted had your wife not been murdered, so anything relating to her makes perfect sense for discussion. We're talking about business tonight, remember?"
She was observing him with a thoughtful glance, but he knew she didn't mean it anymore than he did. "I do." The chicken was baked to perfection, and he said so. He'd finally tossed out Faye's last meatloaf, but Gladys didn't need to hear about that. He doubted he'd ever want to eat another one.
"What does that sly smile mean?" she asked.
"It's nice not to have to eat my own cooking, that's all. What do you hear from the DA's office?"
"Not a thing, which worries me. Detective Lynch may not have threatened you today, but I'll bet he sure wanted to. Maybe he's attempting to lull you into a careless complacency."
"Probably. That's why I'm anxious to talk with Faye's, or Renee's psychiatrist. He has to know something important."
"If he's any good he will," she proposed.
"Of course, there's a possibility he'll prove worthless." He'd removed the photo of Renee and her mother from the frame and pulled it from his pocket. "Take a look at this. It's
Renee and her mother, Patsy, who looks very much like Pearl. Do you remember the sketch I showed you?"
"Yes, I do." She wiped her hands carefully on her napkin before taking the photo. "She's lovely, and Renee was a very pretty little girl. There's definitely a resemblance between them. Many little girls admire their mothers, but could your wife have created Pearl to better pretend to be her mother?"
"Who knows? I'll ask the psychiatrist when I see him. Tell me what went wrong for you today." He slipped the photo back into his breast pocket.
"I wish I could, but my clients' problems are off-limits, remember?"
"Yes, but I thought you might make an exception." The dinner tasted so good, he didn't speak again until he'd finished eating. "I should probably be working on my résumé and begin looking for another job. Insurance is an important field, but I'm not certain I want to spend more of my time on it. You told me to hold off on a job change, but let's face it, California West may still be paying my salary, but I'm out of work."
She crossed her knife and fork on her plate. "What do you want to do?"
"I don't know. It's too late to go to medical school."
"Not if you really want to go."
He shook his head. "I don't, and if people think I killed my wife, it would be difficult to build a practice anyway."
"Stop it. What you need is a bowl of ice cream." She got up to carry their plates into the kitchen, and he followed her. "Maybe I'll apply at Aunt Lucy's. I did well in chemistry in college, and there has to be some involved in making ice cream."
She set their plates on the counter and washed her hands. "There must be, and there are sure to be lots of delicious combinations Lucy hasn't even thought of as yet."
"There have to be." He watched her take the bowls from the cupboard. She had plain white dishes, nothing with a dainty rose trim for her. They looked like they could have come from a restaurant supply house. She was dressed in slacks and a sweater, and he concentrated on the pattern in the linoleum rather than her trim figure. He'd have one bowl of ice cream and leave before he embarrassed them both with a request for a whole lot more. He had once been such a sensible sort, and now he could barely hold himself together.
She put the coffee pot on the stove. "You've become awfully quiet. Do you want the chocolate or chocolate chip, or some of each?"
"Both sounds good." Once back at the table, he watched her lick her spoon. She'd chosen the chocolate and ate it with a near delirious abandon. "Clearly you love ice cream."
"I do, and this is incredibly good. Thank you for bringing it. How's yours?"
He looked down at his bowl and tried not to think of how excited Faye had been to take ice cream home. She'd always had a childlike wonder of the world, and he'd miss that about her. He should have said so at the memorial, if he'd had the chance.
He took a sip of coffee to clear away the sad thoughts. "It's as good as I remembered. I should really go to Aunt Lucy's tomorrow and apply for a job."
"Maybe you ought to begin with vanilla ice cream at home and do some experimenting to see what you can create with it. Then you'll have new flavors to tempt Aunt Lucy where other men are just looking for work."
"Terrific idea. There are pastry chefs, but I've not heard of ice cream chefs, but there must be some. Maybe I should enroll in a fine cooking school so I'll have a fancy certificate to wave."
She glanced away so quickly he knew her thoughts weren't on ice cream either. It wasn't simply lust either, but a stronger pull he didn't dare acknowledge. "Let me help you with the dishes."
"No, you needn't stay. I enjoy working out my cases in my mind while I clean up the kitchen."
"Really?" He didn't believe her, but he thanked her for the dinner and went to the front door. "When I come up with a new ice cream flavor, you'll be the first to taste it."
She held the door open. "I'll look forward to it. Good night, Hal. You take care."
She'd said his name with such sweet longing, he went down the walk so lost in thought he didn't notice the dark sedan parked behind his Packard until a big man wearing an overcoat and hat tipped low got out and came toward him.
It was too warm a night for an overcoat, and Hal instantly recognized trouble. Maybe his questions about Pearl had finally shaken someone out. He had a second or two to avoid him and leap into his car, but he waited on the walk. He was a lot tougher than he looked, and he doubled his hands into fists. The man might be carrying a gun, but his hands were thrust deep into his pockets, and that was a huge mistake.
Chapter 18
Gladys waited at the window to watch Hal depart. Alarmed by the approaching stranger, she feared Hal might suffer some terrible harm right there in her front yard. She flung open the front door, but before she could threaten to call the police, Hal slugged the man with a hard right and dropped him flat.
She ran down the walk. "My God, who is he?"
"I've no idea, but he didn't look friendly." Hal bent down to search the man's overcoat pockets and withdrew a gun. He tossed her the man's hat. "Call the police. If you have some clothesline or rope, let's tie him up before he wakes."
"I've got it!" She raced into the house and quickly returned with a silk sash. "This will have to do." She twisted the length of fabric into a makeshift rope and lashed the man's hands together behind him. "Silk is strong, and it will hold. I'll go call the police."
"Ask for Detective Lynch too." He grabbed the collar on the man's overcoat and hauled him up to the porch. He didn't want to hold the gun, and laid it inside on the hall table. The man had begun to groan. With his hands in his pockets, he'd not been able to catch himself when struck. But rather than the force of Hal's blow, the goon had probably knocked himself out when he'd hit the sidewalk. Hal rubbed his knuckles ready to punch him again if he had to.
Several neighbors came out their front doors, but cautiously remained on their doorsteps or lawns to observe. Hal offered no commentary before the police arrived, and the officers waved the spectators back into their homes. Still curious, they pressed their faces against their front windows to see what they could.
Gladys had seen everything and described how her guest had been accosted on the sidewalk as he'd left for home. Hal nodded and allowed her to explain how he'd defended himself, as any citizen would. It made perfect sense, and Hal would never admit he'd punched the man before he'd been verbally threatened. The man had come toward him in a menacing fashion, and that had been threat enough for him. He'd been armed, so clearly his intentions hadn't been good.
The man came around when a policeman replaced the silk sash with handcuffs. He nodded his chin toward Hal. "He's the one who ought to be in cuffs. He attacked me, it wasn't the other way around."
"Do you have a permit to carry a gun?" the officer asked.
"It's in my wallet. I went out for an evening stroll, and he slugged me."
Noting the obvious size difference between the two men, the taller of the two officers regarded Hal with a questioning glance. "Do you want to add anything to your story?" he asked.
Hal shook his head. "No, I don't." He turned when Detective Lynch entered the house. The officers weren't from his station, and he showed his badge and introduced himself as a homicide detective assigned to a relevant case.
"Do you know this man?" Hal asked.
"Sure, that's Bobby Mund. Sometimes calls himself Ralph Goode. He's one of Jack Dragna's boys."
"Never heard of him," the cuffed man responded.
"Yeah, sure. He'll swear he never heard of you either." Lynch regarded Hal with a troubled frown. "Is it impossible for you to stay out of trouble?"
Gladys stepped to Hal's side and repeated the story she'd given to the policemen. "Pearl LaFosse has to be reason Jack Dragna sent a man after Hal. He might even have shot her himself."
"Never heard of her," Mund muttered.
"Looks like you don't know anyone tonight. Get him out of here," Lynch ordered. "I'll take his gun in for testing."
One policeman hes
itated. "We should take the gun, sir."
Lynch handed them one of his cards. "Have your captain call me in the morning if he wants to argue about it."
The officer appeared convinced, and he and his partner marched Mund down the walk and into the backseat of their patrol car.
"Didn't you want to question him?" Hal asked.
"Waste of time. He wouldn't have admitted anything, and one of Dragna's attorneys will have him released before sunrise. The gun is the only thing that matters. If it proves to be the weapon involved in your wife's death, we'll pick him up again."
"If he's still in town," Hal mumbled under his breath, and Gladys squeezed his arm.
Once Lynch had departed, Hal again turned toward the front door. "I hope to have better luck getting home this time."
"Now that my neighborhood has become so dangerous, I'd rather you stayed," Gladys responded softly.
Tempted, Hal leaned against the doorway. "That's not a good idea for either of us."
"Of course not, but so what?" she countered, but she remained several steps away.
He'd love to feel the soft swell of her breasts pressed against his bare chest, but she'd be Pearl in his mind, and that wasn't right. Ashamed to admit how easily, no, how readily he'd use her, he started down the walk and turned back to wave.
"Good night," he called, but she'd already shut the front door and didn't hear him. Too late, he thought he could have at least kissed her. Even if the kiss had tasted of regret, it would still have been wonderful. In too dark a mood to drive straight home, he stopped at the Golden Bear.
He recognized a few of the Tuesday night crowd, and the man with the bushy white eyebrows nodded a hello. Whiskey straight up might have been what he needed, but he ordered his usual beer. Mitch set the glass in front of him, and he took a long swallow.
"How did you tear up your knuckles?" Mitch asked. "You know I don't allow any fighting in my mom's place."
"Yes, I do. It was the first thing you told me. Did you give Pearl the same warning?"
Mitch laughed. "No, I just welcomed her right on in. I miss seeing her."
