Page 81 - Labelle Gramercy, Detective

Cat’s Paw

highly unlikely that Art left any money under a mattress that’s still
buried beneath a billion issues of Popular Mechanics. As I said, I did
find all of Art’s banking records; in fact, if I hadn’t, I never would
have believed your boss’s story about giving him an advance on a
book. I mean, does this look like the house of a person who would
ever accomplish anything?”
Did I have to answer that? “You’ve got a point,” I finally managed.
“Tell you what. The only way to go about this is to be systematic. Mr.
Mallard doesn’t want me to disappear forever, and I certainly don’t
want to spend any more time than necessary to find the manuscript.
Let me work out a plan of attack and then we can decide how to
schedule it.”
She considered that, inconvenience doing battle with obligation
and profit in her brain. “Okay. Call me at home tonight. My
number’s in the phone book.” She smiled, excavating a new set of
incipient folds and creases between brow and chin. I hoped this was
not an invitation to any sort of non-business activity. My tastes did
not run to, shall we say, females rather more mature than me,
although I could see how an old bird like my boss might find her
attractive (and later regret it).
We tiptoed out of the house, navigating the supraterranean
minefield of Art Lesley’s legacy. It was a relief to be out in the
sunshine. I made my adieux to Ruth Lesley and headed for my own
car. I could be back in the office by three-thirty, ready and willing to
retail my horror story to Fletcher Mallard, along with my brilliant
analysis of the situation. No doubt this was why he had picked me
instead of, for instance, Evan Adams: my logical, organized mind, as
exercised in displays of cybernetic wizardry, had qualified me to take
on this job. It wasn’t my sparkling wit or boyish charm; anyone in
trousers could have gotten the widow’s attention.
As I unlocked my car door I noticed a car going by on the street a
bit slower than necessary, given the almost total absence of other
traffic. I glanced at the driver, and had to blink. It was clearly a
woman in a midsize sedan, but she had a very bronzed complexion,
wore wrap-around dark glasses and enormous gold hoop earrings.
Her blouse, or as much of it as I could see through the driver’s side
window, was bright and multicolored, like a Hawaiian shirt.
Definitely not a suburban housewife on her way home from

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