Dead on my Feet - The Halflife Trilogy Book II

by Wm. Mark Simmons

  It was the Snow Queen.

  “Miz Suanne is here, axing to see you,” Olive added unnecessarily.

  I cocked an eyebrow at her: the polite “darkie"-mixed-with-street patois was an affectation she reserved for the crackers who annoyed her. The Snow Queen was no cracker but she did tend to overdo the noblesse oblige bit for those of a darker skin hue or a lighter social status. I considered telling her that my secretary did the New York Times crossword puzzle in ink but I knew Olive would not appreciate my blowing her cover.

  Suanne Cummings hadn’t always been the Snow Queen. Once upon a time, I’m told, she had been a cheerleader and a model and a beauty pageant runner-up. She didn’t acquire her royalty status until after she married Dr. Hyrum Cummings—eye, ear, nose, throat and just-about-anything-else specialist—and she, subsequently, became the top realtor in Northeast Louisiana.

  She had everything a woman could want: money, success, social standing and, at the age of thirty-seven, she still possessed the body of a twenty-five-year-old. That her natural blond hair was now bleached an unnatural shade of white and that the extra layer of makeup was no longer sufficient to hide her frown lines, did little to distract from the overall package. Suanne was a babe, a power-babe, in fact, and the world as a rule stepped aside and held doors for her.

  “Mr. Haim,” she said, extending a hand dribbling jewelry.

  “Mrs. Cummings,” I countered. Her touch was nearly as cool as mine and I ran a quick check on her eyes. Nope: reputation notwithstanding, she was still human. “Your lawyer hired me and I really should be talking to him.”

  “But I’m paying the bills and retainer, and it is my husband.” She kept her cool, elegant fingers twined about mine and nodded toward the door to my office area.

  “I’m not really ready to make a report, yet.”

  “Then tell me what you do have.”

  “Nothing solid enough on which to build any kind of a case.”

  “Then tell me what you have done to date.” The frown lines deepened, putting stress on her makeup base. “Or have you done anything to date, Mr. Haim?”

  I turned to Olive. “Get me the most recent surveillance tape on the Cummings case.”

  She extricated a tape from the camcorder and placed it on the desk before opening a locked door set in the side of her credenza. She extracted several cassettes and checked the labels. “Go short,” she retorted, selecting one, and flipped it to me underhanded.

  I caught it underhanded and escorted Mrs. Cummings through the next door and into my office.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” I said as I popped the tape into an adapter, then the VCR and hit rewind. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  I stepped back into the reception area, closing the door behind me. “Olive, get me the number for Mama Samm D’Arbonne.”

  “The fortune-teller?”

  I nodded. “In fact, give her a call, see if she’ll see me tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “If not tonight, set me up an appointment for in the morning.”

  “Rather late to be calling civilians, isn’t it, Boss?”

  “Maybe.” I reached behind and ran my hand down my back: the electrical burns barely twinged now. “But I’m not so sure she’s a civilian. And I think she’s anticipating this call.”

  The cassette had reached the beginning of the tape when I returned to the inner office. I picked up the remote and fired off the two codes that activated the monitor and the VCR. “I don’t think you’re going to like this,” I murmured.

  “I don’t expect to,” she said.

  But it wasn’t what she expected.

  The monitor displayed a stretch of green-black water, bracketed by cypresses and evergreens decked with bursts of gray-green Spanish moss and black-brown underbrush tented with cascading canopies of emerald-green kudzu. A silver-gray blob resolved itself into a canoe as the video camera was focused. “Black Bayou,” I announced as the zoom kicked in and we were brought up to hailing distance of the canoe’s two occupants: a bespectacled man in his early forties with thinning hair, and a pear- shaped woman with more gray than brown in her hair that might have been styled in a blunt-cut pageboy before the wind got hold of it.

  “Hyrum Cummings and Delores Hastings,” I announced unnecessarily. We watched for a few minutes as they drifted along, propelled by an occasional dip of a paddle in the still, brackish water. Hyrum and Delores wore expressions of quiet contentment, the occasional movement of lips indicating the briefest of verbal exchanges.

  “This was taken two weeks ago, Saturday. They spent close to four hours on the bayou, together.”

  Suanne shook her head. “Hyrum played golf that Saturday. Hyrum goes to the country club every Saturday and plays eighteen holes of golf.”

  It was my turn to shake my head. “Your husband never plays golf more than once a month—and then it’s no more than nine holes, never eighteen. He drops by the country club every Saturday, puts in an appearance so later on someone can say that they saw him there. But he leaves after twenty to thirty minutes.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Mrs. Cummings, how often does your husband clean his clubs?”

  “Hyrum stopped cleaning his own clubs some time ago. There are people at the club who do it for him.”

  “Really.” I produced a photocopied page of receipts. “According to the clubhouse records, your husband has had his golf clubs cleaned a total of three times this year. He gets more exercise hauling them to the car and back than he does from actually using them.”

  Her face darkened as she turned the logistics over in her mind. “All right, so he’s cheating. I wouldn’t have hired you if I hadn’t had my suspicions.”

  “Depends on what you mean by ‘cheating’,” I said.

  “Oh, don’t get Clintonesque with me,” she snapped. “Let’s cut to the chase; let’s see some video that catches them in the act.”

  “The act.” I nibbled a dry patch on my lower lip and considered the bookshelves on the far wall of my office.

  “I can presume from your expression that you don’t actually have any tape of them in bed together.” She studied Delores’ Rubenesque figure that wasn’t exactly minimized by the flowery muumuu that she wore in the canoe. “I suppose I should be glad to be spared the sight of that woman naked. Gawd, it would be so . . . disgusting.” She tapped a finger armored in gold against her perfect teeth. “But video of them going into or coming out of a motel would be just as good in court.”

  “They’ve never gone near a motel.”

  “So where do they do it? Her place?”

  “They don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Do it.”

  “They don’t . . .” she paused, “ . . . do it?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re suggesting that they’ve never consummated the affair?”

  “Define ‘affair.’ And, no, I am not suggesting, I am telling you that they haven’t done ‘the act’ or anything closely resembling ‘the act,’ since I put your husband under surveillance seven weeks ago.”

  “Impossible!”

  “Impossible for them to consummate, based on the evidence to date. My associates can account for your husband’s and Ms. Hastings’ whereabouts for every hour since you hired me and I have backtracked on all available records for six months previous to my hire. Other than the fact that they prefer to spend time together, there is just no credible evidence that Dr. Cummings and Ms. Hastings are lovers. At least in the conventional sense.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t like it.”

  “I said you wouldn’t.” I stopped the tape and pressed rewind on the remote. “I have additional tapes of them at a concert, a monster truck rally, bicycling through Kiroli Park . . .”

  “Where there’s smoke, there’s got to be fire.”

  I tapped the intercom on my desk as the cassette finished rewinding and ejected. “Olive, round up the Cummings’ file
s and tapes with something to carry them in.” I glanced up at one of the cut-glass mirrors set in the cabinet doors and noticed that my tie was askew. I had loosened it on the drive over and neglected to rebutton the collar before coming in. I also noticed that my reflection was a little vague—something that might be difficult to explain to the uninitiated.

  I turned my back and moved to block my reflection as I struggled with the button. “Mrs. Cummings, aside from my files and a set of dossiers, I’ve got a dozen or so tapes, six hours each. I invite you to review all of them minute by minute and find even the suggestion of a kiss or improper body language.”

  “So what is your next step?” Suanne’s head appeared just over my reflection’s right shoulder: the woman was tall. The stiletto heels helped.

  “I don’t know that I have a next step in your case, Mrs. Cummings.”

  “But what about me?” Her arms appeared from my sides and reached up to adjust my necktie.

  “You take the tapes and go over them with your lawyer.”

  “And?”

  “Decide what you want to do next.”

  “If I understand you correctly, there isn’t enough here to guarantee a hefty divorce settlement.” She pulled my tie snug. And then a little beyond.

  “I gather evidence, Mrs. Cummings, I don’t manufacture it.”

  “I’m not asking you to falsify evidence,” she murmured, “just stay on the case until you can get something solid.” Her hands continued to fuss with my tie even though it was as straight and snug as could be.

  “That may never happen.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “And I find that I am no longer interested in pursuing the case.”

  “I’ll up your retainer and fee.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “Isn’t there anything I can do to change your interest?”

  I started to turn around but thought the better of it when I noticed Suanne was disinclined to step back. I glanced at my office door: Olive, help . . .

  “I’m not really keen on doing divorce cases, Mrs. Cummings . . .”

  “Please call me Suanne.”

  Olive, help!

  “ . . . As you may know, I do this more as an avocation than an actual job . . .”

  “Yes, I know. The stories are you’re quite ‘well off.’ “

  Help me, Olive!

  “ . . . Anyway, I find that I’m not really willing to take money from you to continue a surveillance that is unlikely to produce the results you’re looking for.”

  “If you’re not interested in taking my money,” she said silkily, her mouth way too close to my ear, now, “then perhaps we could make some other arrangement for your remuneration . . .”

  Dammit, Olive: get your ass in here RIGHT NOW!

  The door opened and my secretary poked her head in. “I’m sorry, Boss, but did you call me?”

  Suanne had stepped back but not before Olive had taken in the entire tableau. “Oh, it’s that pesky tie again, huh, boss?” She marched over, took me by the arm, and spun me around to face her. As she fussed with the knot (that was just fine now), she launched into Mother Mode. “I swear! Why a man your age can’t learn to tie his own ties . . . can walk out of his house without dressin’ hisself proper?” Mindful of Mrs. Cumming’s scrutiny, her speech patterns devolved as she warmed to the performance. “Mm-mmm, an’ lookit dis collar! When is your woman gonna get herself back home, here? I gots a good mind to call Miss Lupé up right now an’ tell her you is goin’ to the dogs, for sure!” That with a sidelong glance at my client. “Tell her to git her shapely little butt out of Hollywood and git back here afore you pile up so much laundry it ain’t never gettin’ done in this lifetime!”

  “Did you get Mrs. Cummings’ materials together?”

  “All done, boss. Everything but the billing.” I had lucked out in hiring Olive Purdue. Especially when you consider the number of secretaries willing to work a night shift.

  Cummings finally took her cue: “Why don’t I come back at a more convenient time? I can run everything past my attorney and then we’ll see what business remains for us to . . . consummate.” She breezed past us and into the outer office.

  Once she was outside and starting her BMW, Olive started to giggle. “I could’ve sworn I heard you yelling for help, Sam.”

  I loosened my tie. “I totally didn’t see that coming.”

  “It’s that old PD thing, Boss.”

  “What old ‘PD thing’?”

  “You know; in all the books it’s where the sexy client wants to find out where the term ‘Private Dick’ came from.” She guffawed—I mean there is no other term for the sound coming from her mouth.

  “Yeah, well, I figure that she’s pretty pissed at her husband and I’m the most immediate form of payback at hand for the moment.”

  “And there’s that,” she agreed. “Seriously, Sam; when is Miss Lupé coming home?” She returned my frown. “You say it’s none of my business then you done answered both my questions.”

  “Both your questions?”

  “You said she had an opportunity to do some stunt-work for a movie. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? Some sort of lover’s quarrel.”

  “Some sort,” I said reluctantly.

  “Well, I know that it can’t be another woman . . .”

  Actually, if you considered the ghost of my dead wife to be another woman . . .

  “ . . . and I really don’t want to know what it is about.” She put her hand on my arm. “But what I do need to know is: is she coming back?”

  “I don’t know, Olive. I just don’t know.”

  “Do you want her back?”

  My head snapped up. “Hell, yes!”

  “Then why don’t you go after her?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Can’t? Or won’t?”

  Both actually. I didn’t know where she actually was and what name she was using. And, even if I did, going after her would put us both in serious danger.

  “It’s more complicated than that,” I said finally. “Trust me, it’s better if I wait for her to come home.”

  The telephone rang and Olive snagged it. “After Dark Investigations.” She listened and started to frown. Covering the mouthpiece, she said, “No one’s there.”

  “No one’s there or someone’s not talking?” She shrugged and I felt a prickle of apprehension spidercrawl up my spine. “Transfer it to my office,” I said, heading back to my desk.

  I grabbed the receiver on the second ring. “Samuel Haim . . .”

  Jenny’s voice crackled in my ear: “Darling, it’s me.”

  I leaned back and pushed the connecting door shut. “I’ve told you to never call me at the office.”

  “Or you’ve told you to never call you at the office, if you believe your silly little theory about virus-induced hallucinations,” she countered.

  “I don’t have time for this,” I hissed. “What is it?”

  “Someone’s dropped by the house. I think he’s looking for you.”

  “Who is it?”

  Maybe the accident guy had wandered back up to use the phone again. . . .

  “He isn’t saying. He’s dead, dear.”

  Then again, maybe he hadn’t.

  “Dead?” I struggled to keep my voice down. “He’s a vampire?”

  “No, honey; that would be an undead person. This gentleman is . . . well . . . dead. Has been for quite a long time, it would seem.”

  “He’s a ghost? A spirit?”

  “No, more like a rotting corpse. Walking dead. You know, like a zombie.”

  “A zombie?”

  “That’s what he looks like.”

  “What does he want?”

  “How should I know? Do you want me to invite him in? I could put him on the phone and you could ask.”

  “No! No. I’ll be right there.” I hung up the phone. “Goodbye.” Oops. Get a grip, Cséjthe.

  The clock showed a quarter past midnight as
I came back out. “I think I’m going to take your earlier advice and call it a night, Olive. I’ll be in tomorrow after my night class.”

  She was back to her desk, organizing a spill of paperwork. “I left a message on Miss Samm’s answering machine. Want me to try again?”

  “Not tonight. I’ll just drop by tomorrow, unannounced. In fact, I think I prefer it that way.” I dug my spare set of keys out of my pocket, trying not to drop them in the process. “Oh, and Olive . . .”

  “Yes, Boss?”

  “Three things. First, call the cop shop and see if any exsanguinated corpses have been turning up.”

  “Discreet or direct?” she asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “If the police haven’t run across any bloodless corpses, they’ll think we’re mad for asking. If they have, well, they’ll be wanting to know—”

  “—what we know, how we know, and when we knew it,” I finished, embarrassed for being so distracted that the obvious had escaped me.

  “Especially since ‘we’ would be a very misleading term in this case.”

  “Sorry, Olive. Trust me; you don’t want to know. But if you can run sources and be discreet, find out if there have been any unusual corpses in the morgue of late.”

  “Mmhmm. And if that’s your first request, I’m not real keen on finding out about numbers two and three.”

  Yep, Olive Purdue was a gem and if I seemed to have caught a round of bad luck it was probably because I’d used up all my good luck in finding her. “Item number two: I’d like you to pull the obituary on a Mr. Delacroix for me before tomorrow night.”

  I don’t know how she did it but my secretary managed to look both relieved and wary at the same time. “And the third?”

  “Memo me in triplicate: No more divorce cases!”

  Relief now battled surprise as she contemplated our accounts receivables. “But that’s eighty percent of our case load.”

  “Better to kill time than have time kill me.” I paused at the outer door and leaned my head against the frame.

  She chuckled as she made shooing motions with her hands. “Maybe you’re right. You look like you’re dead on your feet.”

  I eased out the door. “More than you know, Olive.” It closed behind me, the dim light from the pebbled glass barely adequate for my feet to find the platform stairs.