On the way home, because of a commercial on the radio, I figured out how Karen Hastings’ body might have been carried into Ross Murdoch’s house.
“You like?” Stu said.
He wore an apron that said Master Chef on it. It had a silly suburban face right below the script. You throw everything in a suitcase as you make a desperate trip to find your gone-fled wife and you make sure to pack your Master Chef apron?
“Doesn’t Stu sound Chinese when he says that?” Pamela laughed.
“Oh, yes, very Chinese,” I said.
“‘You like?’” she said. “He’s so cute.”
“Downright adorable,” I said.
“So you haven’t told me, Sam,” Stu said, seating himself. “How’s the steak?”
“Great.” And it was. Stu truly was a Master Chef.
We were eating steaks on my wobbly dining room table. Stu was playing a Pat Boone album—my God, he must’ve packed that, too—and Pamela was wearing some kind of Kabuki robe. Stu spoke Chinese and she wore Kabuki. An international couple.
“We’re really starting to like your little apartment,” Stu said. “I haven’t lived in a place like this since college. I had a little more room and it was a little nicer but this is growing on me.”
“Growing,” I said.
“Stu is even getting used to the kitty litter box.”
“It’s pretty darned unsanitary,” he said, “when you come right down to it. But I want to keep my pumpkin happy. She loves cats. I’m a dog man, myself. They go outside when they want to go number two. Well, or number one for that matter.”
“In case you haven’t noticed,” Pamela said, “we’ve decided to stay married.”
“Gee,” I said, “there’s good news.”
“We’re going to buy a new house when we get back to Chicago.”
“And a new car.”
“We owe you a lot, Sam,” Stu said, “you know, letting us stay in your little apartment like this.”
Pamela smiled. “Even with the kitty litter, hon?” She had pieces of steak in her teeth.
Stu was one of those guys—like Red Skelton—who always signaled when he was about to tell a joke. He laughed right before delivering it. “You know what I told Pumpkin here—I’m just glad I don’t have to use a kitty litter box when I want to go to the bathroom.”
Pamela covered her mouth with a napkin, she was laughing so hard. “God, what a picture that would make. Stu and a kitty litter box.”
“I really do enjoy it here in your little apartment,” Stu said. “It really is just like being back in college again.”
“Same with me, Sam. I took a bubble bath this afternoon. I stayed in there for two hours. Nobody knows we’re here. It’s sort of like hiding out.”
“Yes,” Stu said, “that’s it exactly, honey. It’s like that Bogie movie we love. ‘High Sahara.’”
I said, “I think that’s ‘Sierra.’”
“Pardon?” said Stu the Master Chef.
“I think it’s ‘High Sierra.’ Not ‘High Sahara.’ It’s set in the Sierra mountains.”
He had a mouthful of steak. He jabbed his fork in my direction, “You know what, honey? You never told me that this guy knows movie titles the way he does. He’s great.”
The phone rang. I damned near leaped over the couch to get it. Whoever it was, I was visiting them. Or at least saying I was.
Deirdre said, “Could you come out to the house, Sam? Dad’s lawyer would like to talk with you. He’s pretty sure Cliffie’s getting ready to arrest Dad. God, I can’t believe this is happening.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Are you sure I’m not interrupting anything?”
“Nothing I’d care to talk about.”
I went back to the table. “I need to get out of here. I’ll throw some stuff in my gym bag. Take my clothes along for tomorrow. You folks have any idea when you might be leaving?”
“Well, as I said, Sam,” the Master Chef said, “we’re really starting to relax finally. We thought we’d talk to our respective parents tomorrow and then see how a few of our respective old friends felt about getting together for a few drinks. You know, sort of ease ourselves back into society, if you will.”
“So we’re talking what here?”
They looked at each other and then at me.
The master chefette said, “Well, we’ll try to find a place to stay but if we can’t—I don’t think we’re talking more than four or five days to stay here. I mean, even after we see everybody, we can still hide out. Nobody would ever expect us to be in a place like this.”
Nuclear holocaust was sounding better all the time.
FIFTEEN
HE WAS FLESHY BUT imposing, a hint of revered Roman senator in the stark outsize features and coiled white hair. The extra weight added some years to him but the added years helped. Spellman, his name was. Richard Spellman. He had one brother who was a senator and another brother who was a Catholic bishop. Not to be confused with the cardinal.
He perched on the edge of Ross Murdoch’s desk. He wore a black crewneck sweater, blue jeans, white socks, shiny black loafers with tassels. Tassels on men’s shoes have always irritated me. This is one of the possible reasons they keep me up here on the violent ward. Ritz crackers have been known to send me into seizures. Then there was the day I jumped up on the table and denounced waxed paper. Other than that I can keep myself under control. Pretty much.
He had a cigarette in one hand, a social glass of sherry in the other. I’d declined the sherry. I’d spent twenty minutes bringing him up to date. “You going to be threatened when I bring in my own detective?”
“Not at all,” I said. Which was what I was supposed to say. Nobody likes to be second-guessed. But everybody has to pretend they don’t mind it. Your man exposing me as a complete bumbling incompetent fool? Now why would I mind that, Mr. Spellman?
“As I see it,” he went on, “we have two problems. One, we need to find out how she was brought in here. A body isn’t all that easy to disguise. And two, we need to find out who had the strongest motive to kill her. Of the four men involved, I mean.”
“So you’re assuming that it was one of the four who were paying her rent?” I said.
“I don’t eliminate anything, McCain. But I’ll tell you, to me this is like a husband finding a wife dead. The automatic suspect to the coppers is the husband. Big city or small town doesn’t make any difference. That’s who the coppers look at initially and you have a hell of a time moving away from that position.”
“Have you eliminated me, Dick?” Murdoch said, trying to sound droll.
“Of course not, Ross. Don’t take it personally. But I’ve only been working with you for the past five hours. I haven’t had time to form any opinions about anything yet except that your chief-of-police is a baboon.”
“You talked to Cliffie?” I said.
“Courtesy call,” Spellman said, draining his sherry glass and setting it down. “Sonofabitch is sitting in his office reading a comic book. Donald Duck. I still read Batman once in a while, you know, kind’ve for old times sake. But Donald Duck? At our age? Anyway, so I introduce myself, being very courteous and all, knowing I’ll have to work with this dipshit for the foreseeable future, and you know what? He won’t shake my hand. I put my hand out there. And he won’t shake it. You know what he says to me? ‘I don’t shake hands with men who work for killers.’ I’m still polite, of course, and I say, ‘If you mean Ross Murdoch, do you have any solid evidence?’ And he says what I expect him to say, ‘lady is found in his bomb shelter, what more evidence do you want?’ And so on. Then he tells me he’s busy and he needs get back to work. And then you know what? I’m walking down the hall away from his office, heading for the front door, right? And I hear him laughing. And he says ‘Oh, that Gyro Gearloose.’ Gyro Gearloose? And this chief of yours is supposed to be a grown-up?”