The Amorous Attorney (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 2)

by Frank W. Butterfield

Mid-afternoon

  Marge told us the shop we were looking for was on the main street. And that it was next door to the big 7-Up sign.

  We walked for a while, getting lost once. Although there weren't many people strolling in the hot afternoon sun, a helpful local pointed us in the right direction. Thirty minutes after we left the hotel, we were standing in front of the shop. It was shuttered for the siesta.

  Just at that moment, a dapper young man came walking up. He pulled open the metal shutters, unlocked the door, and walked in. We stood on the sidewalk for a few minutes, each of us smoking a Camel, to give him time to get things started.

  I noticed that Carter was beginning to limp just a little on his right leg. "Knee bothering you?"

  "Yeah." He looked up in the sky. I followed his gaze. Over towards the mountains in the distance, there were a couple of gathering thunderheads.

  "Do you think it's going to rain?" I asked.

  "My knee sure thinks so"

  The door opened and the young man said, "Come in, please." His English was clear with a very pleasant accent.

  I walked in first and Carter followed.

  It looked like a common haberdashery, of the sort you might find on the streets around Union Square back home. The colors were maybe a bit brighter but, as I'd once read, San Franciscans still dress in the same drab colors as the miners. I always thought that was true.

  "Hello, gentlemen. I am Carlos. How can I help you?"

  I explained our situation and that Marge, Mrs. Rocha, had sent us.

  "Ah, yes. Don Rocha is a very good client. His wife, Doña Rocha is very nice, is she not?"

  I smiled. "Yes."

  I pointed to Carter, and then down at his feet. Carlos looked down and was a little surprised.

  "I think I have some things perfect for you both."

  He went into the back for a while. I looked up at Carter. "Are you ready to premier your legs in Ensenada?"

  He laughed. "My legs are great."

  "If you like them all covered with blonde hair and thick muscles."

  "I haven't heard any complaints."

  "Nor will you."

  Carlos came in with several boxes. After about thirty minutes, we each had some swim trunks, loose cotton shirts, and two pairs of "beach sandals." One in size 14. And the other in size 9. Carlos tried to teach us the real name for the shoes, but we were both hopeless.

  I also picked up some additional white shirts for myself to wear with my trousers. Carter was out of luck in that arena because the shop didn't carry the right length. But we managed to find a couple that he could wear with the sleeves rolled up.

  The total for the bill in dollars was shockingly low.

  We loaded up our bags and, after an effusive shower of thanks from Carlos, departed for the hotel.

  Now that we knew the way, it only took twenty minutes. As we were walking down the main street, a car drove past us slowly. It was a white '53 Cadillac Eldorado convertible. The captain's brother was driving. One of his buddies from last night was in the passenger seat. The brother saw us and nodded. He smiled as they passed by. And, although he could have been as handsome as the captain, he wasn't.

  Carter said, "It's strange how much they look alike."

  "But the brother isn't as handsome."

  "You are becoming quite the expert on their family, aren't you?"

  I snorted. "I only have eyes--"

  "I know."

  . . .

  When we got back to the hotel, we gave our bags to Miguel to put in the room. I wanted one of those dark beers. Also, I wanted to check for messages.

  We walked through the lobby and there was Mike. He looked like he was melting in his wool coat and tie.

  He smiled as we approached. "Hello, strangers."

  I smiled and shook his hand. "How long have you been here?"

  "About twenty minutes. Didn't take as long to fly from San Diego to here as they told me."

  "Did the crazy pilot bring you?"

  Mike smiled and nodded. "Yeah. He never did shut up the whole time we were flying."

  Carter laughed. "I never understood anything he said."

  I threw in. "But he knew how to fly a plane. That was the softest landing ever."

  Carter asked, "Did you hear someone just talk?"

  Mike said, "I thought maybe I did, but I don't see anyone."

  I shook my head and walked over to the reception desk. The bored kid was there. "Any messages for 102?"

  He looked in the box and pulled out a big handful. I was surprised.

  "The calls just keep coming. AP, UPI, New York Times, Times of London. You're a popular guy, Mr. Williams."

  I looked down at the stack. I picked one up and read it. "Please call Jack Wyatt. United Press. New York. WA-3002."

  Right. Like, I'm going to call them.

  I picked up the next one. "Mr. Williams – Roger Wallace NY Times in Room 221. Any time for interview? Pls call. Tks."

  I looked up at the kid. "If you want to tell anyone else who calls or asks that I'm not doing interviews, feel free."

  He just shrugged. "OK. Fine by me."

  I scooped up my messages and went back over to Carter and Mike, who were talking in a low voice about the murder. Mike was looking a little cooler. He had taken off both his coat and his tie and had rolled up his shirt sleeves.

  "Let's go grab some beers in the bar, fellas."

  "Are you thirsty, Mike?" asked Carter.

  "Yeah. How about a beer? But none for pipsqueaks." asked Mike as he mussed my hair.

  "Sheesh."

  . . .

  We settled in at the bar at the far end, as far away from anyone else as we could get. The bartender brought us each a bottle of Negra Modelo and a glass. He opened the bottles and poured about half a glass for each of us. Then he nodded and walked away.

  As he'd been doing this, I looked around to see who might be in here. There were two men at the far end of the bar who were eyeing us but were making no move other than to talk between themselves and drink their beers.

  Two couples were seated at a table and talking hilariously about something to do with friends in Dallas.

  There was the low sound of music in Spanish on the radio. And the ceiling fans, along with the shutters on the ocean-view windows, were helping keep the temperature down.

  I laid out the messages and began to go through them as Carter continued to catch Mike up on the case so far.

  All but two were from reporters. One was from Marge:

  "Have called Captain Esparza to expect your friend Mr. Robertson at dinner. Car at 8. Marge Rocha."

  The other was from Ben:

  "Going to dinner party at 8 with two fellows from L.A. In movie biz. Will discreetly ask about Taylor & Rhonda. They seem in the know. Ben."

  I wasn't sure about this. But I figured since he was already connected to Hollywood through his job (now likely a former job) at the police department, this might be just right for him. I passed both notes to Carter.

  He asked, "What are the rest?"

  "Requests for interviews."

  He looked surprised. "This must be a big story."

  Mike said, "And how. When I was at the San Diego airport, the newsstand there had the local paper out in a special. The big headline was, 'Taylor Wells Murdered In Lurid Ensenada Love Nest.'"

  Carter whistled.

  . . .

  I decided to call the reporter from The New York Times to see what he wanted to talk about. So, I left Carter and Mike at the bar and took a seat in my usual booth. I picked up the receiver and Marge answered. "Hi Marge. It's Nick Williams."

  "How are you, Nick?" She sounded tired.

  "Fine. Thanks for adding Mike to our party for dinner tonight."

  "My pleasure."

  "We got some new clothes. And you were right. They had beach sandals for Carter. Thanks for that. Carlos was very complimentary."

  "He should be considering how much my husband spends there. He's actuall
y in the lobby. My husband, that is. Just got in from Mexico City. If it's OK, he'd like to meet you."

  "Fine. Send him to the bar in ten minutes. In the meantime, can you connect me to room 221?"

  "Of course."

  There was a click and then silence. After a moment I heard a man answer, "Wallace here."

  "Mr. Wallace, this is Nick Williams."

  "Hello, Mr. Williams. Thank you for calling. Do you have time for an interview this evening?"

  "What did you want to ask me about?"

  "Well, of course, you being connected to Taylor Wells through your friend Jeffery Klein. And, after all, you just had that confrontation with George Hearst a few days ago. I wanted to get your reaction to Mr. Wells' death and any other details you could tell me. I assume you're helping the state police investigate?"

  "I can't really comment on any of those things. I just wanted to let you know that I have your message. Good night."

  I dropped the receiver back on the hook, stood up, and walked back into the bar.

  I sat down next to Carter. He asked, "What did he want?"

  "Just my perspective considering the nature of my unnatural relationship with Jeffery. Oh, and whether I was working with the state police." I took a sip of my now warm beer. "I wonder who it was that leaked all this to the papers?"

  Carter snorted. "Your boyfriend, obviously."

  Mike asked, "What's that?"

  Carter looked at him and said, "Nick has the hots for the police captain in charge of the case. When you meet him, you'll see why. He's very handsome." Carter put his left hand on my right thigh and squeezed it.

  I looked up and saw a tall, distinguished man in a tan suit walking into the bar. He had thinning black hair, a long aquiline nose, and very dark eyes. He walked confidently, as if he owned the place. I figured he had every right to, since he did. Or he owned part of it, along with his wife.

  He came up to me and asked, "Mr. Williams?"

  I stood up and offered my hand. "Mr. Rocha?"

  He smiled and said, "Yes. And it is a pleasure to meet you. I am sorry about your friend. Such a tragedy. Pardon me." That last sentence was directed at the two American men who had just sat down at the table right behind him. One of them had bumped into Rocha by accident.

  "No problem, pal," was the reply from the taller of the two.

  I introduced Carter and Mike. Rocha asked Mike, "You are with the San Francisco Police, no?"

  Mike shook his head. "Not anymore."

  Rocha's eyes narrowed. "I see." Then, he appeared to dismiss whatever thought that was and said, "I hope you are comfortable at the hotel."

  I nodded and said, "Very. Your wife is an amiable hostess."

  "Yes. And she knows everyone in Hollywood. We like to think of this place as being a quiet, private part of the Mexican Riviera, where they can come and relax."

  I said, "I don't know how private it will be from now on."

  He nodded vaguely. "Yes. We will see. But today we have many guests. And I must help Margarita to attend to them. Please excuse me." He bowed slightly, turned, and walked briskly out of the bar.

  Carter asked, "What was that name?"

  "I think that's Marjorie in Spanish."

  "And wasn't that the name of the concoction that Rhonda wanted everyone to drink last night?"

  I nodded. "Have you had one Mike?"

  "What's that?" He wasn't paying close attention. Not to us, at least.

  "A margarita. Made with tequila. Really sweet."

  "No," was his short answer.

  I looked at my watch. We needed to start getting ready.

  I stood up and waved the bartender over.

  "The bill, please."

  "On the house." I raised my eyebrows. "By order of Doña Rocha."

  I nodded and said, "Thank you." I put a five on the bar.

  Carter stood up and stretched. "How's your knee?" I asked.

  "Still achy. But better. I'm predicting rain."

  I laughed. Mike was still sitting there, slowly drinking from his glass. We waited. After a moment, he put down the glass and stood up.

  "Ready?" he asked.

  "Sure." I waited until we left the bar before I said anything else.

  We walked out to our suite. I wanted to show Mike the crime scene. Or at least as much as he could see.

  I looked up at the sky as we walked through the door. The sky was getting darker and the surf was up a bit. Looked like Carter's knee was right.

  Rhonda and Juliet were walking towards us as we came around a corner. Rhonda stopped and said, "Evening, gents. Who's your friend?"

  I introduced Mike to Rhonda and Juliet. "But I don't know your last name Juliet."

  She looked at me with a level gaze. "No, you don't."

  Rhonda quickly said, "You boys must pardon us. We really have to go. Good night!"

  And, with that, they were gone.

  Carter asked, "Why all the secrecy?"

  Mike said, "Let's get inside and I'll tell you."

  . . .

  I opened the door to our suite and was surprised to find that it had been cleaned and made up. Our packages were all in a neat stack on the table.

  Carter sat down on the sofa and offered his arm to me. I took it and sat next to him. He looked up at Mike and said, "Have a seat."

  Mike stood regarding us for a moment. "You two really do belong together." He paused. "So, Nick. Where'd you get the ring?"

  I put my right hand over my left hand without thinking about it. Carter grabbed hold of my left hand and lifted it up. "If I could marry him, it would be a wedding ring."

  "A wedding ring?" Mike seemed incredulous.

  I said, "I know. He's such a romantic."

  Carter said, "Well, I can take it back if you don't like it."

  "You'll have to pry it off my cold, dead body. I ain't partin' with it. Not now. Not never."

  The two laughed as Mike pulled up a chair from the table.

  "So, Mike," I asked. "What'd you hear in the bar?"

  He smiled at me and said, "It was all about lovely Juliet. First off, that isn't her name."

  Carter said, "Of course not. Who uses that name these days?"

  "Her name is Phyllis Evans. She's from Toledo. And she's on the make with Rhonda."

  "Really? How did you hear it?"

  "There were two reporters sitting behind us."

  "The two guys who came in while Rocha was talking to us?"

  "Right. They sat down and one of them began to tell his friend all about his research on Juliet, a.k.a. Phyllis."

  Carter was doubtful. "So she's on the make? Who isn't in Hollywood?"

  "No, from what I could tell, this was a specific scam. The reporter, who was talking a mile a minute, was saying he'd found out how Phyllis had a habit of blackmailing women over their affairs."

  "Well, he found that out fast."

  "Actually, he'd been on her trail for a while. He'd been planning to come down here. It was coincidental that Taylor was murdered. He was actually complaining about how his story would be bumped because of this."

  Carter said, "Isn't it more likely that this is the key to the murder? That she did it? That Taylor discovered what she was doing?"

  I told Mike about the cigarette butts.

  He shook his head. "I don't know. Taylor didn't strike me as being very smart."

  "But Jeffery is." I said it but I didn't like the thought at all.

  Chapter 19

  Hotel Riviera del Pacifico

  Tuesday, May 26, 1953

  Just before 8 in the evening

  For dinner, we decided to wear what we would normally wear, only without a tie. Having to think about clothes so much made me realize how much I don't like staying at the beach or, really, spending much time anywhere that isn't San Francisco. Maybe I should do what Jeffery had drunkenly suggested last night and get out more. Regardless, I was getting restless and we had only been here a little more than a day.

  We met Mike
in the lobby at 8. I had a Camel. That was already two more in a day that I normally had. Maybe it was Taylor's death. Whatever it was, I remembered halfway through how much I don't really like smoking and stubbed it out.

  As Mike was looking up at the ceiling and saying how it reminded him of some photographs he'd seen of Hearst Castle, a short man in a chauffeur's uniform approached us. He was dressed like it was 1929, including the lace-up boots that went to his knees and a cap tucked respectfully under his left arm, just like the captain had done with his. He was like a character in a movie.

  "Señor Williams?" he asked. I stood up. He spoke in Spanish and I just shrugged. He said something I did understand, "El Capitan Esparza." I nodded and motioned to Carter and Mike who both stood up. When they did, the chauffeur, who was maybe 5'3" tall, got a wide-eyed look and then grinned.

  We followed him out the door to a waiting limousine. It was magnificent. It was a 1930 Deusenberg. And, boy, was it decked out. Carter and I sat in the back on the soft leather seats. Mike sat up front with the chauffeur.

  The sky was dark and, as we drove through town, past the store we'd been to earlier, past the highway that led to the airport, and up into the hills, I could see flashes of lightning over the mountains in the distance. It was, at once, thrilling and ominous. I took Carter's hand. I wasn't scared. I just liked holding his hand.

  About ten minutes after we'd left the town behind, a whitewashed wall appeared on the right. We turned in at the first gate we came to. The iron-work gates were standing open.

  From the gate, it was maybe a half-mile to the house, which was surrounded by huge trees, all of them live oaks from what I could see. The only light, apart from the Deusenberg's headlamps, were a few strategically placed spotlights that illuminated the trees from below.

  The car drove around a circular drive and stopped. There were several other cars parked near the house. There was a curious small two-seated convertible in silver that I had never seen before. As we drove past it, I could see that it was a Sunbeam, a car made in England. It looked brand new. There were a couple of Cadillacs, including a white '53 Eldorado, and a handful of late model Buicks, Pontiacs, and Fords. And a long black '53 Lincoln Capri.

  As the chauffeur came around to open the door for us, Carter said, "Looks like a party."