Page 122 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case

Soaked to the Bone

would be at the mercy of the ruthless woman beside me. Another
class I had missed was self-defense for the defenseless. All I could
rely on were a certain tartness of tongue and, in no small measure,
the usual feminine wiles. They would have to do.

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We pulled up behind a dilapidated pick-up truck parked sloppily
next to mine in the VIP section. Neighbors had gotten wind of the
situation, and the press would not be far behind. The forensics team
going over the truck resembled insects stripping a carcass. I
wondered if Gene would even notice the disarrangement of his
gardening and pool-cleaning tools when—and if—he left the
premises. I guessed he was sequestered, in a polite fashion,
somewhere he could not witness this violation of his vehicle’s right to
privacy.
He was: Labelle led me back through the side gate to the cabana.
Gene was seated there under the watchful eye of a uniformed
policeman. His weather-beaten face was strained, his shoulders
slumped, his leathery liver-spotted hands clutching each other in his
lap. I made a mental note to stop putting off that visit to the
dermatologist. The sun was murder at this latitude.
“Thank you, officer.”
The man nodded at Labelle and left us alone with Gene Foss. I
could see she was cranking up the charm, attempting to play on his
older-generation masculinity. I had considerably more voltage in this
area, and switched on the whole dazzling array of maternal sympathy,
filial respect and female helplessness.
Gene gawked at me, happy to ignore the authority figure flying
under patently false colors.
“Miss Cora! Are you mixed up in this? What is going on here? I’m
sorry I’m late. Truck wouldn’t start. Had to get a friend to help
unplug the fuel line.”
I smiled reassuringly.
“This is Lieutenant Gramercy, Gene. She’s trying to find out what
happened, too.”
Labelle took her cue.

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