Ham was handsome, six feet tall, his head and face covered with hair more suitable to a mountain man than a car salesman. Presently convincing customers to buy American at an Olds dealer, he’d been heard many times to predict Alfie’s imminent demise at his hamlike hands. Those who knew said his enmity was due more to losing access to Marji’s money, rather than Marji.
None of the suspects had alibis, but Woody couldn’t prove any was near the scene of the killing. He also faced the possibility that the killer had been a freelance holdup artist Alfie had unwisely resisted. Or even a disgruntled employee or a dissatisfied customer. Alfie was of the school that believed both were always wrong.
His principal witness was Mrs. Guidron — nee Neubeir — octogenarian widow of the town’s leading obstetrician. Anyone who read anything but the sports pages had come across her name and picture at one time or another. She had first voted in 1932 to help sweep her father into the mayor’s office on the coattails of FDR. Not one to sit at home while her husband delivered babies, she had worked for many years in the D.A.’s office. D.A.’s came and went, but she went on and on, testimony that while political influence could get you a job, you need competence and ability to keep it.
Living alone almost directly across the street — stoutly refusing to employ live-in household help she could certainly afford — Mrs. Guidron told Woody she’d been dozing in a chair near the window. Roused by the shot, she looked out in time to see a dark figure run down the areaway between the Lutheran church and the house next to it. She then observed the robed and barefooted figure of Marji Sutter appear on her porch and run down into the street, where her screams woke the rest of the neighborhood. Mrs. Guidron tottered out to join her at the prostrate body of Alfie.
Paying Norma, I cocked what I considered a romantic eyebrow.
“Cruise deliver as promised? Glorious nights in the arms of a handsome fellow traveler under an enormous subtropical moon while the ship’s orchestra played softly in the background?”
The blue eyes would put the Caribbean to shame, and the face, showing just a hint of tan, would never peddle shampoo or dentrifice in a TV commercial but would look good at any hour of the day or night and twenty years hence. So would the short, gleaming, honey-colored hair.
“Five nights, five men,” she said. “Did you miss me?”
“The thought of suicide crossed my mind several times.”
“I missed you, too. The ship was really loaded with gray-haired widows and twenty-five-year-old merengue dancers.” She allowed her fingers to linger on my hand as she handed me my change.
I managed enough control to say, “Talk to you later.”
“You know where to find me.”
I floated to my car. She’d come to town from some vague place out West a year ago — exactly the type of quiet, attractive widow to make a widower’s house seem emptier than ever. I wasn’t the only one in the chase, but I was beginning to feel I had the edge.
The hill on the west side of town where the rich folks lived had wide streets lined with elms, oaks, and sycamores, and huge houses built during the twenties that required plenty of ready cash to maintain.
It hadn’t been available at the Ronstead place. In a story familiar to all, Mrs. Ronstead’s income had been adequate enough when her husband died, but remained static while everything else went up. Gradually the choice became one of maintenance or eating, really no choice at all, and the attorney settling her estate said she hadn’t even been well fed when she died.
I wandered through the empty rooms. What remained was walnut, oak, brass, solidity, and craftsmanship. It would take a bit of money to make it good for another twenty years, so the prospect list was very small. Yet Mary already had someone coming in. No wonder I called her Marvelous.
I locked up and drove to what is always termed the scene of the crime.
Circumstances there were different. Marji had not only inherited the house but, as a Sutter, plenty of cash to keep it up. Enough, it was said, that she’d be wise to extract a prenuptial agreement from big-spending Alfie, if the romance ever got that far. She worked as a cashier at one of his dealerships because it amused her, not because she needed the salary, which, knowing Alfie, had to be minimal.
Beautiful young woman with a B.A. degree, Woody said, but still in junior high as far as life was concerned.
I parked across from the church and lowered a mental shade over the sunlight to imagine what the street was like at night. The old pole-mounted street light at the corner would keep the Lutherans from stumbling on the steps of the church, but the budding curbside trees would kill the yellow light before it went very far. Someone running into that light would become clearer with every step, but the night deficiencies of Mrs. Guidron’s ancient eyes would have required the assistance of a battery of floodlights. Lack of detail in her description of the figure was only to be expected.
I’d asked Woody why someone would wait for Alfie. Wouldn’t it be likely he’d spend the night? Anyone who took the trouble to look into it would know he never did, Woody had said. While she might tolerate his infidelity, Peggie still demanded an appearance of propriety.
Some marriage arrangements puzzled me.
I followed the route the figure had taken. To my left, a head-high hedge above a low stone wall kept the people in the house next door from seeing what the Lutherans were up to. Woody’s men had examined every leaf and probed every inch of the soil beneath it, in addition to scouring the entire neighborhood and searching every corner sewer inlet to be certain the gun hadn’t been thrown away as the killer fled. The heavy granite of the church sat on my right.
At the rear, a sharp-spiked ornamental wrought-iron fence separated the church from a narrow alley that had once served for trash and garbage collection until the trucks had become too big to fit. Running into it at full speed in the dark would have turned an unaware perpetrator into instant human shish kebab. Woody believed the killer had turned right, his car parked on the street only fifty or sixty feet from the gate in the fence. I turned left.
High fences, low fences, small lawns, others with garden plots showing the signs of early spring attention, walks leading to flights of wood steps and small back porches. Marji’s house was no different. Utility was the architectural watchword for the rear of the homes of that era.
I came out onto a strictly residential cross street and returned to my car, looking at the church and wondering if I’d overlooked something.
“Hey!”
A small white-haired woman wearing gray sweats and white walkers glared down at me from the wide verandah of the big brick house. Even at that distance, the glare was enough to quick-freeze a large steer.
“Looking for something?”
I ambled up the walk and beamed my most charming smile up at her.
“Don’t stand there grinning like an imbecile! I asked you a question.”
The white hair was thinning, but it still maintained its natural waviness and she kept it cut short to highlight a face with very few wrinkles, the skin stretched over fine bones. The hazel eyes were certainly not cataract-dimmed and were still sharp enough to get into a man and look around.
“Mrs. Guidron? I’m working with Sheriff Barr. I’d like to talk to you about the murder.”
“I know you. You’re no cop. You’re a realtor.”
“I’m undercover today. Out for your two mile run?”
“Hell, no. I’m undercover, too. As an active person. What are you really up to? Looking for bargains?”
“Looking into the murder, as I told you. I help Woody out once in a while as a civic duty. Sort of a two heads are better than one deal.”