We pulled up to the front. An ornately gardened walkway led to a tall oak front door. A monstrous rosebush grew on either side in wood chips. The drizzle had tapered down a little as we pulled to a stop. I slipped my gun into the glove compartment, smiled at Elmo, and then climbed from the car. "Come on, Fatso." I sniffed the breeze-salty with a faint aroma of fish. What a strange yet refreshing breeze, I thought.
Elmo busily straightened his suit-an interesting hound's-tooth number with dark slacks-then ran a comb through his thin hair. Poor bastard, I thought. Elmo had class; it was obvious. To have a boss that clomped around in army boots and greasepaint must have horrified him. But, he never complained. I walked up to the front door, rang the bell, a second passed and it opened.
I could tell from the first glimpse that he was the butler. The jaundiced complexion and permanent sneer on the fellow behind the door also told me he was a snob. His eyes had an unfeeling metallic gleam. His tuxedo was covered in minute black and white checks, with a topcoat that stopped at the waist.
"I'm sorry," he hissed. "We do not accept solicitations."
"Oh good," I said. "Because I didn't bring any."
"Well, sir," he continued, squeezing his eyes at me. "If you have business here, I suggest you use the servant's entrance and speak with the house manager."
I smiled, clenched my fists, and then smiled again. "I'm here to see Mrs. Cotton. I suggest you fulfill your job specs, and see to our comfort…"
"Now, I've had enough…"
"Am I wrong," I cut him off. "Or is one of us here, a servant." I glared at him. "I'm Wildclown, a detective. I have an appointment with Mrs. Cotton." I held up my license.
His eyebrows jumped to the top of his head when he looked at it, and then fell to a serious line over his eyes. "Mr. Wildclown, of course," his voice held a minute inflection of professional remorse. "Please come in." He swung the door back to reveal a long oak-paneled hallway that stretched away from us in three directions. Elmo and I entered.
The butler gestured to a spread of leather chairs. "Here gentlemen. If you would please wait while I announce your arrival."
"Thank you." I smiled. Everybody was happy again. I noticed the butler took the seaward hall. His form became a bending rapier of shadow against the glare of polished wood.
I looked at Elmo. "Nice place."
"Like a shit house in heaven." I noticed Elmo's eyes searching over the lavish carving on the pillars and roof beams.
"Yes, keep an eye peeled for Apostles." A sudden tock-tock-tock alerted me as a distant form appeared in the glare of the hall. The strangest thing about Mrs. Cotton was the fact that her perfume reached me a full minute before she did. Violets. Mrs. Cotton had somehow managed to make the scent aggressive. The second thing I noticed about her was the look of utter disbelief on her smooth features. Her long face was framed in platinum hair, and her body, to be kind, was thin. Mrs. Cotton in her expensive shimmery dress looked like a chicken-wing wrapped in silk.
"Is this some kind of a joke?" She stopped a good ten feet from us. Her voice honked, goose-like, from her long neck. I winced when the light from the hallway cast her body into sharp relief against the fabric of her dress. I was reminded of coat hangers.
"No, Mrs. Cotton." I climbed to my feet beside Elmo. "I'm Wildclown, a private detective. This is my partner, Elmo." He bowed nervously as though he had met the Virgin herself. "As I told you earlier on the phone, I'm working on a case. There was a murder that took place at the Morocco Hotel the same night that your husband met with misfortune. There may be a connection."
Her eyes narrowed-looked me up and down. "This isn't a joke."
"No, Mrs. Cotton. I'm here to ask you some very serious questions."
"And the makeup?"
I restrained Tommy. "Part of a disguise. Investigating murder can be a dangerous business." I gave her my 'I love danger' smile.
"I see." Her expression told me she wasn't convinced. Her big eyes gave me the twice over. "Has the world gone mad then…" She shook her head, then tried a gracious smile. "Do come in for a drink. Excuse me if I ask your partner to wait here." She turned away and clattered down the hall she had just come up.
I turned to Elmo. "That okay with you, Fatso?"
"That's cool, Boss. This is g-good enough for me."
I left him sitting on the couch, a beatific smile on his face as he studied the carvings overhead.
Chapter 24
I wrestled gravity. First I gripped my knees, found I sank too far-pulled myself forward again, locked wrists around them. I wanted a cigarette, couldn't smoke one this way so I let go and sprawled back into the overstuffed pillows on the couch. I tried to make the maneuver look natural so I dug into one of my pockets and produced a cigarette. I popped it into my mouth and then gazed across at the distant ashtray that taunted me from a heavy marble coffee table. I struggled out of the couch, and sat on the arm.
I noticed Mrs. Cotton had been watching me. I smiled, offered a cigarette that she declined, and then lit my own. Two great triangular windows swept up the wall of the living room that faced the coast. They formed the broad wings of a sea bird that was worked into the stucco. Through these wings, I could see the world outside, gray and blurry in the wind-blown rain. Around me sprawled a number of similar man-eating couches and divans. Mrs. Cotton leaned against a mauve grand piano. We were waiting for our drinks. Neither of us had said anything for the last few minutes. The butler returned. I welcomed the warm presence of the scotch. Mrs. Cotton sipped a martini. The living room was kept well lit by many ceiling lamps. I could see Mrs. Cotton better in this light.
She must have been pushing fifty before the Change, and the end of aging. She had fairly smooth skin, flawed by a slight bagginess over the cheekbones. It gave her eyes a protuberant, fish-like quality.
"I suppose you're through sizing me up," she said coolly, using the paperback mystery jargon.
"Nice place you have here." I walked over, flicked my cigarette at the ashtray, and then looked around and around. There was a picture on a side table of a man with a kind face and bulbous nose. He was dark haired, and dark eyed. Heavy rimmed glasses held up his thick lenses. "This Mr. Cotton?"
A slight blush washed behind her features. "He hated that picture."
I stifled an urge to agree with him. "Been here long?"
"Alan purchased the house for us ten years ago-just after his promotion. It used to belong to a movie director."
"What was the promotion to? Head of the sales team?" I stood about ten feet from her; drink in my left hand, cigarette in my right.
She looked offended. "Don't be ridiculous."
"I was told your husband sold cosmetic products for the dead." I sauntered over to the piano, resisted the urge to set my drink on it.
"Now you are being ridiculous." She turned away from me displaying a featureless back. "He was nothing of the kind."
"Really," I said, experiencing the kind of tight feeling I get in my stomach moments before life gets complicated. "What did he do exactly?"
"Well, he was in the afterlife business; but nothing so inconsequential as cosmetics. Goodness, no. Alan was the inventor of new life Regenerics."