“Thanks,” she said stiffly.
“Look, this case is complicated enough and... I couldn't be just a friend to you, corny as that may sound.”
“I suppose you feel sorry for me.”
“Yeah. I feel sorry and sort of tenderly curious about you, Mrs. Turner.”
“Call me Mrs. Turner again and I'll scream!”
I nodded to the waiter for the tab. “A real scream would rip through that veneer you sport. Let's leave it at this. When the case is over, I'll drop around and we'll scream at each other.”
“That will be so big of you,” she said coldly. “You see, I don't know all the answers—like you do.”
“I try to know them. It's a rough world if you don't know what you want.”
“Barney, you're always so smug, so righteous. I... hate you!”
“Mrs. Turner, for now, whether you hate me or like me, that's not what we're here for. That's what I've been trying to tell you. First things first, and all that stuff.”
She sighed. “Then let's get back to business—what do you plan to do next?”
“Wait around, see what the police come up with. I don't know what else to do. Seems to me either Andersun or Turner were killed accidentally. In other words, one of the killings was planned, the other was something one of them walked into. Since Andersun was killed first, would seem Mr. Turner walked into it. But that doesn't figure. I mean, there's more chance Ed was mixed up in a shake-down, like these vice raids he cut himself in on. Only thing Andersun ever chiseled was a cigarette. Still, the cops would, or should know all about Mr. Turner's deals. Perhaps I'll try going over Andersun's background again, must be something there we've skipped. About time for me to call for my kid. Shall I take you home?”
“Can I come along—for the ride?”
“Of course.”
I paid the check and we drove over to the Westside Highway and up to the George Washington Bridge. Some fancy joker in a Packard roadster gave me the horn and passed me. I winked at Betsy and gave my Buick the gas and we whizzed by him, like he was standing still. I turned to her, asked, “How did you like that? This load can step.”
She looked a little nervous, but she was thinking about something else. She said, “Barney, does your daughter—does Ruth—know she's adopted?”
“Sure.”
“Why did you tell her?”
“Why not? She'd find it out sooner or later. We simply explained that anybody can be stuck with having a child, but to choose one, well, that's greater love. That was Vi's idea.”
“Vi—she sounds like a nice woman.”
I was amused at how everything was “nice,” or Betsy “liked”... things. I knew what was coming next. It came.
“And I think you're very brave to raise Ruth yourself.”
“What should I have done—tossed her back into an orphan home? For Christsakes, she's my kid. I'm attached to her— perhaps even more than Vi was.”
“I didn't mean...” She stopped and didn't say a word till we turned into the bridge and she said, “This is a beautiful sight: the water, the lights of the bridge against the dark of the sky.”
“Looks better when you're coming toward New York—more lights.”
“Barney, you mean your wife didn't want the girl?”
“She wanted Ruthie, but it was like a fad, a hobby, to her. Vi had to work hard at everything. Reason she got along with a turtle like me was, she'd just recovered from a nervous breakdown when I met her. Realized she had to slow down, stop pushing so hard. Used me like a brake. She did slow down, gave up most of her insurance agency, but Ruthie took its place. Vi tried too hard with the girl.”
“Do you mind if I ask what she died from?”
“You've already asked. Cancer.”
She said she was very sorry—all in the proper sorrow-tone of voice. We drove the rest of the way in silence and when I walked her into Jake's place, Betsy was not only a surprise, but a sensation.
Jake has a one-family house, everything about it old and mostly homemade, because he's a handy oscar with wood. But it has the warm feeling of a house lived in by people who enjoy living. They were all grouped around the TV set—Jake and Grace, Ruthie and the two boys, one a string bean of ten and the other real big for his twelve years. The youngest, “the surprise baby,” as Jake called her, a two-and-a-half-year-old girl, was sprawled half asleep in a big chair.
Soon as we entered, Betsy replaced the TV screen as the target of all eyes. Grace fussed with her apron, her hair, said, “Barney, you should have told me you were bringing a guest.”
“This is my employer, Mrs. Turner,” I said very formally, so they wouldn't get the wrong idea. I introduced Betsy around and when I came to Ruthie, Betsy bent over and said in that silly cooing voice adults seem to think kids want, “What a lovely big girl. Barney has been telling me so much about you, Ruth.”
Ruthie gave her a polite smile, then asked loudly, “You the lady my Daddy has been spending all these nights with?”
Heavy silence hung in the room like a fog till Jake's oldest boy broke it with a snicker and I said lamely, “I'm on a case for Mrs. Turner and the only time she can see me is in the evening.”
Grace said, “Of course,” and glared at the oldest boy when he giggled again. There was more of the embarrassing silence till the little girl suddenly woke up, stared at me, then wailed, “Uncle Barney.... Present? Present?”
I tried to lift her up, but she pulled away and bawled. I told her, “I really didn't forget, Gloria, just left your present in my office. Next time I come I'll bring two presents.”
That didn't silence her and finally Jake told her, “Go to sleep, Gloria. People don't have to bring you gifts all the time. I'll drive back with Uncle Barney and get the present. You'll find it here in the morning.”
Grace said, “It's way past her bedtime, that's why she's so cranky,” and took the wailing kid upstairs, while Jake made us some weak drinks and the boys asked if I cared to tear a phone book in half. I told them I was too full for stunts, and Ruthie immediately wanted to know if I'd eaten out and where. Betsy, who was sitting next to Ruthie, said we'd had a snack on the way out. Then Ruthie decided she must see the pleats in Betsy's skirt that made the swirling effect, pulled up the skirt and the solid thighs weren't missed by any male in the room, including the ten-year-old one. Betsy examined Ruthie's dress, and they started to talk about clothes, just as if they were two grown women. The rest of us watched some cowboy drama on the TV.
Grace came down—she'd changed into another dress. When she got herself together Grace was a pretty woman—only most times she dressed as if she'd just jumped out of bed. She said, “Turn off that darn set so we can talk. TV is making everybody antisocial. Jake, where's my drink? All right, sit down, I'll get it.” She grinned at Betsy. “Jake's a postman so I try to save him steps.” She headed for the kitchen, called, “Barney, see who needs a refill and help me.”
Of course nobody needed a refill except Betsy, and the boys wanted some more root beer. Soon as I got into the kitchen Grace sprang on me and gave me a tight hug as she whispered, “Oh, Barney, she's lovely. And notice how she and Ruthie hit it off? I'm so happy for you.”
“Aw Grace, stop it. I'm working for her—that's all.”
“That's work? Even if you're only bedding together, good for you. But I think she's sweet and so young and...”
“Jeez, no wonder your kids are so sexy-minded. Look, it's only a job with me. Her husband was murdered a couple weeks ago.”