Who Murdered Garson Talmadge

by David Bishop

  I took a small sip of tea and steadied myself the way men always have in such circumstance, I glanced at her cleavage. It’s my theory that women who show cleavage want men to look, just not to leer. Men can allow their thoughts to linger, just not the looks. I didn’t disappoint her or myself; the look didn’t linger, but my thoughts did. Then I swam deeper into the water that had washed me onto her shore. “Tell me about your relationship with your stepmother.”

  “She’s got a great little pooch. That Asta is a real sweetie pie. Where’s the dog now?”

  “Asta is with me.”

  “With you?”

  “Yeah. I’ve never had a dog. Always figured that one day I’d get a man’s dog, but it’s just until Clarice gets out.”

  “Gets out! That bitch is a murderer, or is it a murderess? She married Papa for his money. When Papa wised up to that fact and decided to drop her out of his will, she killed him.”

  “She could have filed for a divorce,” I countered. “California is a community property state. That presumes a 50-50 split of assets.”

  “Presumes?” She huffed, and then crossed her legs, leaving her top foot bobbing up and down the way I’d seen lots of women foot bob. And come to think of it, I’ve never seen a man foot bob; it must be part of those differences folks talk about. “The signed prenuptial,” she said, “establishes that all Papa’s assets were his sole and separate property. In it, she agreed not to make any claim challenging that point. In return, Papa agreed that she would get a minimum of one million as long as she stayed with him until he died or ended the marriage. The prenuptial also acknowledged he could use his will to leave her more if he chose to, but that he could change his will anytime at his sole discretion. His executed will stipulates Clarice will get a full third along with Charlie and me. If Papa took her out of the will, she would be back to the one mil in the prenup. That’s your motive: about four million dollars.”

  “You sound like a lawyer.” I said, while watching her reverse the top gam in her crossed pair. The new top foot was not a bobber.

  “And you strike me as a man pretty much at ease with himself.”

  “I know who I am, what I believe in. But you haven’t answered me. I asked if you were a lawyer.”

  “No, you didn’t. You said I sounded like a lawyer. That’s a statement, not a question.”

  “That sounded like a lawyer, too. Are you an attorney?”

  “I graduated from law school more than a year ago; I started later in life. Since then I’ve not taken a job. Papa provides my brother and me with an annual stipend. With that and some part time work, I get by. I’ll likely take serious employment someday. Not sure if it’ll be the law. Just haven’t had to decide, I guess.”

  Actually I already knew that Susan had gone to law school. Clarice told me that Susan had attended the U.C.L.A. School of Law, but Clarice wasn’t certain if Susan had graduated. I checked. She had, with honors.

  Susan uncrossed her legs, slid out of her sandals, and pulled her feet up onto the couch sideways, turning herself toward me. I waited patiently, watching the entire maneuver and could not have imagined it being done with more … how should I describe it, style?

  “What kind of part time work?”

  “I work at a few gentlemen’s clubs in the area. Strictly fill in … Ah, yes. The look. Your middle-class judgment.”

  “No. No. That’s your business.”

  “I saw your expression. You pulled it back, but it had already come. Just for your information, I don’t hook. I give it away to whomever I choose. At the clubs, I do some pole, frankly pole is really healthy work. I also do laps, mostly younger men wanting a new experience, and you middle-aged guys.”

  “Ouch. That should even us up after my look, as you called it.”

  “Do you want to change the subject?”

  “I wish I had a few minutes ago.” We shared one of those brief, polite laughs. “Tell me about your mother.”

  “I’m not clear on how that is relevant,” she said in mild protest, “but I don’t mind. Our mother was Iraqi. Charlie and I are twins.”

  “Did your dad live in Iraq when you two were born?”

  “No. Papa made business trips to Baghdad. I don’t know all that much about it. He went there a few times a year. That’s how he met our mother. I hate to admit it, but I don’t even know her name. Papa told me once when we were young, but I just don’t remember.”

  “Were you raised in Baghdad?”

  “No. When we were babies, Papa brought us to France where we grew up. He had a wife in Paris, and the three of us, Papa, Charlie and I, lived with her, and Papa continued his business trips to the Middle East. Ten years ago Papa divorced his French wife, and we moved to the U.S. and became citizens.”

  “Where did your father meet Clarice?”

  “Here. America,” she said, then narrowed it still further, “Long Beach. Rumor is she worked as an escort, but in fairness, we don’t know that for certain. Ask her. She’s your client. Although, I suspect, you’ve been formally retained by her attorney, this Fisher guy.”

  “You know, you two, Clarice and you, look a bit alike aside from your slightly darker complexion.”

  “It’s okay to say what you mean: our bodies are very similar. We wear the same size clothes. She’s a C-cup, I’m a D, other than that we’re the same. We have never shared clothing, however. May I ask you something, Mr. Kile?”

  “Sure, but drop the Mr. Kile.”

  “Matthew?”

  “I prefer Matt.” Although the way she said ‘Matthew’ sounded a lot hotter than when Fidge said it.

  “All right, Matt. Why are you helping that bitch? She murdered Papa.”

  “She’s only accused, not convicted. You know that, being a law school grad.”

  “Technically speaking that’s true, but there’s no doubt. I’ve explained her motive. So, why are you helping her?” Susan again crossed her arms below what she had described as D cups. I let my look linger, breaking the rule. She reached over, put her fingers under my chin and raised my stare back to her eyes.

  “She was with me that night,” I said, “early into the next morning. I don’t believe she did it.”

  “I see.” She raised her eyebrows this time. “You two have a thing?”

  “Clarice had come down to talk with me, scared someone might kill your father. She was frightened. I tried to console her.” I went on to tell Susan about the call for Gar—Jar—it would all come out anyway.

  “She came down after Papa had gone to bed for the night,” Susan said, continuing her accusatory tone. “I can imagine how you consoled her, how she would want you to console her.”

  “Nothing happened that night.”

  “But you two have shared the sheets. Clarice loves to get it on. She told me so one night when we were both a bit soused. Papa knew she did, and he understood she had needs he could no longer fulfill. Still, she was always there for him when he could. I give her that much.”

  “When they first moved in, I thought your father was her father.”

  “Hey. It would have been out of character for her not to seduce you. Matt, you’re too much a hunk for her to pass up.”

  Susan got up, stepped around the coffee table and faced me teasingly while leaning forward to refill our tea glasses.

  I crossed my legs, the effect being nothing like when she had crossed hers. I added a throat clearing. She sat back down, trumping both my leg crossing and throat clearing.

  “Okay,” I said, “we’ve established where I was the night your father was killed. Where were you?”

  “I danced at the club until it closed at two. Right after that my brother called. A few of the other girls and I got out of there about two-thirty and went to an all-night diner for some early breakfast. Working on a pole can build up an appetite.”

  I imagined it would for her; for me I’d work up the appetite watching her work the pole.

  “Where was your brother that night?”


  “All I know is he was home when he called me. He must have been out on his deck because I could hear his wind chimes. Let’s be a little less serious for a minute here. Can I get you something stronger than ice tea? I’ve got most anything you’d want.”

  “Irish whiskey?”

  “No. I’m sorry. I’m going to get some wine. Join me?”

  “Sure. That’d be nice.”

  “Its white wine. Okay?”

  I nodded, although I had never really known if white wine was for drinkers or people who wished to appear to be sophisticated drinkers.

  She came back a moment later carrying two stemmed wine glasses. The wine was obviously cold; the glasses were dressed in condensation. “Are you Irish?” she asked.

  “With a name like Matthew Kile, what’s to doubt? But if you want proof, I’ll let you pet my leprechaun.”

  “I’ve never heard it called that before. I guess it’s small.” She frowned. “All leprechauns are small, or so I hear.”

  “Not too many Irishmen go around showing each other their leprechauns, so I don’t really know how mine might compare with other leprechauns.”

  “Will it stand at attention and take orders?”

  “Willie sometimes has a mind of his own, but Willie lives to serve, my good woman.”

  “Willie, huh, I guess yours must be special to have a name.”

  “I’m going to change the subject now, if that’s all right?”

  “Sure. We can come back to Willie at any time. As you said, Willie lives to serve; I assume that includes damsels in distress.”

  “The story is that your dad was a broker of illegal weapons. True?”

  “He did some of that, years ago. He quit before we left France. Not that quitting made his doing it okay, but it does make it old news.”

  She stood again and went to the glass sliding door. “The sun hits the water every day about this time, reflecting into my living room.” She used two pull chains. The first drew the vertical Venetians across the glass; the second chain angled them closed.

  “The way I see it,” I said, watching her walk slowly back to the couch, “it’s possible, if not likely that someone from those days killed your father. Someone who wanted to be sure the details of certain weapons deals didn’t come out.”

  “Could be.” She sat back down, again curling her legs onto the cushion. “But I don’t believe it, all that’s back at least ten years. Anyone concerned about that stuff would’ve killed Papa a long time ago. I’m telling you Clarice killed him for the oldest of reasons, money.”

  “I way I hear it, your dad called your brother in the middle of the night to tell him he planned to cut Clarice out of his will, and then your brother called you. Is this correct?”

  “Yes. That was the call I told you I got from Charlie just after the club closed.”

  “Your brother still lives here in town, right?”

  “A few miles from here, on Ocean Boulevard, I can give you the address?”

  “I have it.”

  Susan escorted me to the door where she moved in close. “Have you been coming on to me, Mr. Kile?”

  “Whatever made you think that, Ms. Talmadge?”

  “Susan.”

  “Whatever made you think that, Susan?”

  “The interest you and Willie were taking in my bathing suit. Would you like to come onto me, Mr. Kile?”

  I moved back one step. “I’m trying to do my job.”

  “I don’t know if I was all that helpful, but hopefully I improved your working conditions.”

  “Yes you did, and I thank you for that.”

  She stepped forward, erasing my step back and held my gaze with her own. “Unlike my stepmother, I’m not married.” Then she kissed me, not the grab-and-squeeze kind, more gentle, our bodies touching, but she kept her hands on my shoulders.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Failing, if you can’t recognize what I’m doing.”

  “Why?”

  “I like you.”

  “Everybody likes everybody when they’re kissing.”

  She slowly moved her hand down my arm and brought it around to a more central location. My body rose to meet her.

  “Been a while, eh, Mr. Kile?”

  I decided not to mention my celibacy calendar. “Matt. Please.”

  “Been a while, eh, Matt?”

  There was no need to answer her.

  Chapter 7

  Charaxus Talmadge, known as Charles, lived on the eighth floor of a more modern and taller building than the one in which his sister lived. I walked past the elevator and took the stairs.

  Before I pressed the bell, the door opened with Charles Talmadge holding the inside knob. We stood like two boxers center ring, without a referee to warn us about low blows. He was wearing silver-rimmed dark glasses with reflective lenses. I don’t often trust people who totally hide their eyes.

  His swarthy complexion and attitude gave him just the right look to attract the ladies who favored bad boys. He was wearing a beige linen sport coat, black-pleated lightweight slacks, a black and tan tie, and a white silk shirt. The belt loops in his pants were wider than common to men’s pants. He stepped forward; his tan silk socks peaking out over tasseled black-patent loafers, a fashion plate outfit. It only took a first glance to know that Charles Talmadge had not grown up Mr. Roger’s neighborhood. He took off his shades and stuck them in the breast pocket of his jacket. His eyes were dark enough to go with his black-wavy hair, yet somehow his two didn’t exactly match, like holes in a working man’s boot.

  “You didn’t need to dress up on my account,” I said, scoring the first low blow.

  “I don’t like your manners, Mr. Kile.”

  “They could likely use some improvement. I keep working on them, but so far they haven’t gotten much better, maybe even a little worse.”

  “I was on my way out when Susan called to say you’d be here in five minutes. I told her I’d wait, although I see nothing to be gained by our talking.”

  Free weights and a pressing bench filled the area the developer had designed to be the dining room. The left cut of his sport coat lumped slightly. He was carrying a gun and was right-handed.

  His answers, laboring under a self-imposed gag order, were short and gift-wrapped in surliness. Despite the tough act designed to intimidate, my read was that, except when watching Sponge Bob reruns, most encounters intimidated him. The act was all he had.

  Our first few minutes together had gone nowhere and had gotten there fast. “You know who I am and why I’m here,” I said, trying to pick up the pace. “I work for the attorney representing your stepmother.”

  “That bitch. She made a great piece of ass. I don’t fault Papa for taking up with her, but a wife? Not on her best day. Papa had a great wife, but he left her in France. This bitch was the new, younger version, but Papa wised up. He told both Susan and me that he planned to axe her ass. Kick her down to their prenup. She found out and knocked him off.”

  “That’s not true. Garson only told you. You told Susan.”

  “Same thing.”

  Far from it, pal. Generally he was saying the same things that Susan had said in her more stylish and respectable manner. I figured they had rehearsed.

  He had still not invited me in, but he had retreated far enough to reach around me and push his door shut.

  “Listen, Charaxus—”

  “Charles to you, Charlie to my friends, and you aren’t one of them.”

  “Okay, Charles it is. Your stepmother didn’t kill your father. I’m trying to find out who did. You oughta want that. Okay if I sit down?”

  “The cops have his killer. In lockup she’ll sell her ass for much smaller rewards.” He pressed his right palm against my chest. Using his right hand was a mistake. He couldn’t reach his weapon. Then he said, “Time for you to go,” and pushed.

  I grasped his hand and twisted hard, levering his thumb toward his wrist. “I didn’t say you could touch m
e. You need to ask your sister for some lessons on how to treat visitors.” He winced, bending at the knees to slacken the pressure. I twisted harder. “Drop the tough guy act. You look silly and it won’t work.” I let go of his thumb.

  He flexed his right hand then slid it inside his jacket. I put the flat of my hand over his hand which by now was over his holstered gun, then drove with my legs the way I had in my younger days pushing defenders off the line of scrimmage. He stopped when his backside hit the closed front door. His dark glasses fell out of his coat pocket and clattered on the floor. I put my other forearm against his throat and leaned into it. I also put my foot on top of his glasses.

  “I said, drop the tough guy act. You’re no good at it. Maybe it worked when you had your daddy’s rep backing you up. Now you’re just a silly pup trying to play with men.”

  “Okay. Okay.” His shoulders slumped in childlike defiance. “Whatdaya wanna know?”

  “For openers, where were you the night your father was killed?”

  “I was at home most of the night. I was here when Papa called, and when I called Susan.”

  “How do you prove that?”

  “I think it goes like this: you have to prove I wasn’t.”

  I pushed my arm harder against his throat. Then he said, “A couple people saw me around. I drove to a gym to work out on some equipment I don’t have here, around ten o’clock. Then I stopped at the liquor store on the corner of Carson and Atlantic to get some beer.”

  “What about later?” I asked.

  “I met some friends at six for breakfast.”

  “That doesn’t tie it all down does it?”

  “Hey. It was just another night. I wasn’t into alibi building. God bless America, I’m innocent until proven guilty.”

  I took my arm from his throat, thrust my hand inside his jacket and pulled out his short-barrel Smith & Wesson. After yanking out his silk shirt tail and using it to wipe my prints off the handle, I held the barrel and tossed the gun behind a chair in the far corner of the room. While I did that he picked up his glasses. When he saw they were broken, he threw them against the far wall. I shoved him toward his dark-brown leather couch and sat on an ottoman fronting the matching chair in the corner.