Cheap as Beasts

by Jon Wilson

  “Oh, Florence.”

  I turned at O’Malley’s voice and saw that he too had pivoted to greet a new arrival. She was an older woman, probably topping fifty, with tied-up gray hair and a simple, somber uniform. Her features were rather large for her face, and her skin looked sallow, like she had subsisted for too long on nothing but boiled potatoes. Her eyes were a light shade of silvery blue and tended to bulge. She nodded at O’Malley and stopped a few paces shy of the door.

  “Mrs. O’Malley wishes to speak with you, sir.” Her accent still put me in mind of the Rhine, but I make no claim to having a precise ear.

  “Me?” For all his threatening Kelly with going to her himself, the idea suddenly appeared to render O’Malley incapable of swallowing.

  I sat back and put my hands in the air. “Shall I stop?” I made my voice loud and deep, hoping to give him, if not perhaps a verbal slap, at least a healthy nudge.

  It worked as well as I could have hoped. He spun back around to look at me, confused. “No.” He forced down whatever had been blocking his throat and squared his shoulders. “No. Keep going. I’ll explain to her.”

  He strode off down the hall as I went back to exploring cubbies. After a moment, I realized that the Swiss maid had entered the room and stood next to the armoire, observing me.

  “I’m Declan Colette,” I told her without stopping work. “We spoke on the telephone. You’re Swiss.”

  She didn’t say anything. She’d folded her arms, but then decided against it. She angled her torso to see what exactly I was doing.

  “Did they tell you to watch me and make sure I didn’t plant any evidence?”

  Again that earned me nothing at first. Finally, quietly, she told me, “No.”

  Her tone inspired me. “Did you watch the cops?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they didn’t take anything?”

  “No.”

  She was reticent, but I felt I might coax her along if I played it right. I had no doubt that she’d been instructed not to leave me alone, but she didn’t exactly sound like she was going to hinder my progress. Or, if she was, her heart wasn’t in it.

  I felt like I had finished with the desk and wanted to explore the dresser and armoire, but I also didn’t want to spook her. I turned slowly in my chair, twisting my lips and showing her an arched brow. “Then I’m confused.”

  I lost some ground. She stood up straight again and then leaned back. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. She wasn’t dumb.

  I shrugged. “It’s just I can’t find Miss Wyman’s diary. Didn’t she keep it here at her desk?”

  Her suspicious look turned smug and disappointed. She folded her arms again and turned her head, unable even to bear looking at a chump who would try something so patently phony.

  Ah, well, you can’t win them all. I glanced over at the window. “You must have known Ramona since she was a girl.” No response. “Probably she could be bratty. I remember her telling you something about a hat—the other hat. Did you help her with her wardrobe?” She might have been alone in the room. “Surely you want the person who hurt her to get what’s coming to him.”

  I got up and went toward the armoire, and she nearly jumped to get out of the way. As smart as she was, apparently she wasn’t completely immune to nerves. I opened the cabinet and glanced at the wardrobe. Expensive and modern duds all, but like the contents of the cubbyholes, about what you’d expect. At least a dozen sweaters were folded up at the bottom, and the two drawers below held socks and assorted undergarments. The five drawers of the dresser showed me more of the same.

  Atop the dresser sat various knickknacks and an assortment of low-grade jewelry along with a miniature chest containing higher class trinkets. There were hair ribbons of every color imaginable. At the back stood a five-by-eight photograph in a gold frame. It showed a blonde girl of about twelve standing next to a man who looked like a giant in comparison but was probably not much more than six feet. He had dark hair, no hat, and two bars on his uniform. They both smiled at the camera, and she was holding on to him like he was scheduled to depart and she wasn’t willing to let him go.

  It would have been a wistful photograph even if both its subjects hadn’t since met with violent deaths. Just looking at it made my eyes itch. I turned to the maid. “Miss Wyman must have had her own bathroom. Is that where she kept her makeup?”

  “Miss Wyman’s aunt did not allow her to wear makeup.” Her tone indicated that she approved of the edict, and her own face cinched it. A little rouge and some lipstick would have done the old gal wonders.

  I cut for the door. “Still I’d better check.”

  She took an abortive step to head me off, but I stopped, sparing her the need. She said, “There is no makeup.”

  “Yeah? And no diary. But the cops took nothing.” I let her see that the idea didn’t appeal to me. I wasn’t dumb either.

  Florence turned away again, directing her attention toward the door. That put the back of her head pointing at the bed.

  “Ah, under the mattress? Classic.” I moved over to the far side of the bed and shoved my arm between the mattress and the springs. I slid it all down the side feeling nothing, so I lifted the mattress for a look. “Huh.”

  The maid turned back around, shocked.

  “Sure,” I said, deciphering her expression. “But I would have been surprised if he missed it.”

  “The police took nothing.”

  “I know.” I dropped to one knee and took a peek under the bed. Unlike a typical teenager, she kept nothing there. I looked around the room again. “Miss Wyman told me she had a letter from France. And her aunt said she probably had several. Where did she keep them?”

  More silence, but when I looked up, the old woman was chewing her lip.

  “They would have been special to her. Probably she kept them together, in a box. Someplace safe.”

  More lip chewing. Then she abruptly crossed over and opened the armoire. She dug down through the folded sweaters stacked at the bottom, expecting to find something, and then reacting poorly when she didn’t. “It was here.”

  “Good. He was thorough. I like that.”

  She turned on me. “I assure you, the police took nothing! I was here always when they were.”

  Still kneeling beside the bed, I turned my head slowly, letting my gaze do a near two-seventy sweep. When it hit me, I was glad I was down as otherwise I would have had to kick my own sitter for not spotting it at once.

  I went back to the dresser, snatching up the gold frame and turning it over in my hands. I undid a small clasp at the bottom and slid out the thick cardboard backing. I shook the frame and the photograph dropped on top of the dresser. But just the photograph. I shook the frame again. It was empty.

  As I had been manipulating the latch, Florence had taken a lurching step toward me, her hand outstretched. “Nein.” She had limited her objection to just that, however, so I ignored it until I saw that I was either too late or wrong again.

  “Nein indeed.” I slid the photograph gently back inside the frame, inserted the backing and swung the latch into place. “Are you on the level about the makeup? That means, are you sure? Miss Wyman wasn’t allowed to keep any?” I looked at her.

  Florence shook her head, bewildered but unbowed.

  “Not even, say, a lipstick? She might have kept a secret stash. Maybe you didn’t know.”

  That flabbergasted her. “How can I say, then? If I did not know?”

  “True. But I take it you think not. Probably you kept a close eye on her. Someone had to.” Having gotten her started talking, I was keen to keep it going. “What did she do for fun?”

  “Fun?” She said it in such a way that I wondered whether I might need to learn the German translation. It didn’t appear to make any sense to her.

  “Yeah, you know, how did she spend her free time?”

  “She attended school.”

  “Sounds like a blast. How about after school?”

  “She
studied.” I started to say something again, but she shut me up with a curt nod. “She also swam, took horseback riding lessons, and, some months ago, performed a small part in the school play.”

  “How did the boys treat her?”

  Her hands clasped in front of her hips. “There were no boys.”

  “That’s what she wanted everyone to believe,” I said, mostly under my breath.

  “I assure you, there were no boys. During the school year, there had been a boy, part of a group of friends, but it was quite casual and…” She paused as if contemplating the right English word, but it escaped her. “It ended with the semester. I do know.”

  “She talked to you about it?”

  “Her aunt. They were very close.”

  “Sure. Yesterday her aunt even thought about hiring me to find out who killed her. Now she sends you up to spy on me.”

  “I am not a spy.”

  “That’s what your cousin Fritz said right before I put a bullet in his brain.”

  She said something else then, something in her native tongue that I could not decipher, except that her tone left me relatively certain she was not complimenting my shoes.

  I told her, “No, you’re right. That’s what he said.”

  I sighed and gave the room one last look. Not that I expected to find anything. In fact, I’d already found what I’d expected—nothing. It wasn’t evidence, but neither did it disprove my initial suppositions. I only wondered what had set him off? Why wait four years? And why drag a teenage girl in if you couldn’t ultimately trust her?

  The old witch had not made an exit after cursing me. She stood stiff and tall in the middle of the floor with her yellow hands tightly clasped in front of her waist. Her gaze was on me, but not so much scrutinizing as daydreaming about how I might look flayed. As is pretty SOP, my fast tongue had left me feeling a bit remorseful, so I apologized for what I’d said.

  She turned up a corner of her withered lips. “Du bist ein Schwein. Just like the Germans who did kill my cousin. And my brothers.” She aimed her gaze down at the rug then, although I suppose it wasn’t the rug she was looking at. Her tone grew even more severe. “Alle Männer sind Schweine. Schweine haben aber ihre Nützlichkeit.” The faint hint of a smile she’d been playing with faded completely as she glared at me again. “You ferret in the mud—der Schmutz—that others will not. You stink of it.”

  My inclination, naturally, was simply to shrug her insult off, especially as I savvied only about half of it. But something in her tone and her evil eye had worked its way under my skin.

  She said, “Do you think that I can not see the darkness in you?”

  As a matter of fact, I believed she could. She pierced me with her sharp eyes. I felt exposed,not just naked but actually flayed. Sliced open like a cadaver on a coroner’s slab. Maybe she was a witch. I wanted to throw wide my arms and beg her to reach in and rip it out of me, all of it, the good and the bad. I’d rather be empty than carry it around any more. It was eating me up, eating me alive.

  But of course she wasn’t a witch. Witches don’t exist. Just like succubi don’t exist. And there’s nothing inside of me but me. We were just two bitter souls alone in the room of a dead girl.

  The noonday sun was pouring through the window I’d opened, splashing across the floor and filling up the room with heat. I tugged out my handkerchief and applied it to my neck. Florence watched me do that, then spoke slowly, quietly, like someone might be lurking outside the door.

  “She wished to learn to drive.” She swallowed, choosing her words carefully. “Madame did not approve. Nor Mr. Kelly.”

  I squinted at her, working hard even to translate her English at that point. And then I felt my right eyebrow creep slowly up my forehead. “Huh. He defied both Madame and Mr. Kelly? I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him.”

  She sneered, as if suddenly she could smell the schmutz. “He doesn’t. He’s a terrible coward. Afraid even of a small child.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  She led me down via some hidden stairs, and we found O’Malley seated in that third-rate breakfast nook. He still looked forlorn, but I could spy no new battle scars from his recent encounter with his father’s widow. The ginger hair was mostly corralled, and his jaw was only half clamped. He swung his gaze up at me as I approached.

  “Did you find anything?”

  “No.”

  He thanked the maid for bringing me and, after she’d left us, sighed all the way down to his ankles. “Can we go now?”

  “Sure. But is there another way out? A way that doesn’t take us past that bloodhound in the hall?”

  He nodded and started off with me at his heels. The first half of the trail was the same we’d followed to Miss Wyman’s room. As we passed the window overlooking the patio, I noted that the lounge chair was empty. As was the pool. Mrs. O’Malley had moved elsewhere. Seeing that gently undulating water made me long to jump in myself. Following my flaying upstairs, my skin felt as if it didn’t quite fit.

  In the kitchen, a large, aproned woman stood snapping peas into a bowl. As he went by, O’Malley kissed her on the cheek, putting a small smile on her rosy lips. But he said nothing and neither did she. Then we ducked into a short hallway and out a door into the sunlight.

  We were at the west side of the house. The car sheds were located in the northeastern corner of the grounds. It didn’t seem likely we could make our way there unnoticed, but I tossed out a hopeful suggestion anyway. “How about a brief word with Hector?”

  His eyes widened at the prospect, but he didn’t immediately say no. He ran his fingers through his hair, then closed them into a fist. From his expression, I concluded he was reviewing maps in his head, trying to suss out a route. With our backs to the kitchen door, the front of the house was to the right. Directly in front of us was a cute little herb garden, tucked up against the stone wall, bordered by a picket fence. O’Malley stared at a pint-sized scarecrow lording over the plot. He pursed his lips and puffed out his cheeks. Then the air escaped in a sudden gust and he said, “This way.”

  A concrete path stretching in both directions had been laid in the grass, and he led me around the back. It turned out to be a hike. Maybe a safari. The path split at the southwest corner of the house, with a left turn leading toward the patio and pool. We took the right fork, heading into some shrubbery and trees near the perimeter wall. We passed another shed that looked like a gardener’s headquarters at the back of the grounds, but encountered no fellow explorers. A few times we went off the path, forging through gaps in the foliage, but once he decided upon a route, he never second guessed himself.

  At the southeast corner, we came upon a shady gazebo with worked iron benches. I asked him to hold up and he slowed to a stop, turning back to face me.

  “We need a plan.”

  “A plan?” He was bewildered and clearly growing damned tired of it. “What do you mean a plan?”

  I pointed north, up alongside the house. We could barely catch glimpses of the drive, the sheds and the activity scattered round there. “I mean for the cops. I just want to ask Hector a few questions, but you saw that Lieutenant. He won’t like it.”

  O’Malley told me what the lieutenant could do, something not quite anatomically impossible, but certainly distasteful.

  “Sure. You’re new to this whole murder business. Cops don’t take to such suggestions. Even coming from spoiled rich kids like you. Maybe especially from—”

  He cut me off by offering me a similar suggestion.

  I grinned. “I like you better sober. Yesterday you were a bit soggy. Today you’ve got some iron.”

  “The plan is you stay out of sight while I demand to know what is going on with my car. They’ll expect a spoiled rich kid to do that, won’t they? Then when I have all their attention, you slip into the carriage house.” He drew another breath and stared off toward our destination. “I hope Hector’s even there. I haven’t seen him and didn’t think to inquire. Oh, well. Come on
.” He started off.

  I fell in behind him thinking it wasn’t a bad plan at all. Certainly he’d hit the target as far as what the cops might expect from a spoiled rich kid. He kept going with his new impressive line of reasoning by explaining, “There’s an entrance to the garage from the back. Between the building and the wall.”

  As we neared the corner of the house, I increased the distance between us to about ten feet. He waved his hand low, down at his side, signaling me to stop. I did. A swath of flowerbed and lawn, perhaps fifteen feet wide separated the house from the perimeter wall. The narrow concrete path I was on wound through the middle, slightly closer to wall. I stepped between two trees, allowing me to surveil all of the carsheds and a portion of the drive reaching just past the end of the police van. The personnel had moved out further into the drive, and O’Malley, without slowing, strode in that direction and quickly out of sight.

  “Who’s in charge here?” He made it sound good, like any lord to the manor born. I heard his shoes crunching on gravel a few more steps, then he stopped. Apparently someone answered him, though not well, because he repeated himself with the noteworthy air of someone who doesn’t appreciate the necessity. “I asked who is in charge! That’s my car, and I don’t recall giving anyone permission to lay their grubby hands on it.”

  I sighed. Gig had mentioned he’d flopped in Hollywood, but it certainly wasn’t due to any unwillingness to commit. Once I felt he had corralled all the attention, I made my move, weaving between the narrow trunks of the Buckeyes. Pausing at the side gate, I took in the scene on the drive.

  O’Malley was gesticulating but not overdoing it, demanding to know when he’d be allowed to take his Highlander and depart. Two plainclothesmen were trying to explain. Two others, as well as the two uniforms, were all enjoying the show. Dent had not yet appeared, and I hoped the client wouldn’t escalate the program to such a degree that someone might feel compelled to summon him.