Page 88 - Labelle Gramercy, Detective

Cat’s Paw

I gulped down a burning mouthful of coffee. “Deported? Who the
hell are you? Where are you from?”
She drew herself up, nostrils flaring. “I am Lola Costa, the Bahian
ballerina. I was a—how you say—defector from the Brazilian
National Ballet last year. It was because of Arthur. He said he loved
me, and he took me to a place where we were married. Now he is
dead, and I have no proof. Unless the paper is in his house.”
“You mean the marriage certificate?”
“Sim—yes, that is what I must have. That is what the lawyer of
immigration has told me. Otherwise I have no hope.”
This was incredible. “But, but—if you were married to him, don’t
you have a key to the house? Didn’t you live there with him?”
She lowered her lashes demurely. “Oh, yes, Senhor, as man and
wife for many weeks before he died. But that other wife—the old
one—she came and threw me out and changed all the locks so I
cannot come back.”
Suddenly the whole thing seemed phony. Her outfit, her accent,
her story. But Ruth and Hope didn’t really ring true, either. Had
Mallard sent me into this madhouse of competing women because he
thought I could handle crazy people? At any rate, I knew what this
one wanted, so I could cut short the interview and get home to
dinner.
“Sure, I understand perfectly,” I said soothingly. “If I ever see your
name on anything in that house, Miss Costa, I’ll let you know.” I
stood up and attempted an encouraging smile.
“Oh, I am so grateful to you, Senhor O’Bleakley. Let me give you
my number of telephone.”
I fumbled in my pockets and came up with a scrap of paper and a
ballpoint pen. She took them and carefully wrote her name and
number. Taking back the note, I realized it was the memo with the
message about Albert Goode. It couldn’t have meant anything to her.
Then I got out of there as fast as I could, and didn’t look back until I
was on the road in my car and had to use the rearview mirror before
changing lanes. Nobody was following me. I was totally on my own
again, away from the workaday world and all its aggravations. It felt
good.
After an hour or two in my apartment, and a beer or two in my
belly, I felt even better. My job seemed much more secure, and it was

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