by Goulart, Ron
"Oh, I recognize you now I saw your picture in the paper. You were with him when he got killed."
"I was. We think maybe he hid something important with one of his friends."
"Jesus, does somebody think I've got it?"
"You must be on their list."
"But, like I told you, he never would've considered stashing a damn thing here."
"Did he talk to you about a big, new story he was in the middle of?"
Micki shook her head. "Ours wasn't a relationship that involved much confiding—on either side," she said. "This stuff they're searching for—it's Lloyd's notes on something?"
"Probably."
"Would they be worth a lot, do you think?"
"Well, somebody sure thinks they are."
"I don't like the idea that—"
"They're coming right over," announced Wilder after jerking the door open wide. "Get on inside. She can't talk to you anymore, ma'am."
"I was just leaving," H. J. informed him pleasantly. "God bless you both."
Chapter 10
Ben had a train seat to himself. He was holding on tightly to his copy of The New York Times, struggling to keep awake. You heard a lot about the stress of commuting, but this particular ride was having a very soothing effect.
His eyelids yearned to snap shut, his body was seriously considering slumping. He felt snores stockpiling in his nose.
Having H. J. back in his life might seriously disrupt his sleep patterns.
Sitting up straighter, shaking his head several times, he took a few deep breaths, mouth open.
That was better.
He forced himself to concentrate on Vincent Canby's review of a new Gerard Depardieu farce that was apparently both delightful and astonishingly diverting.
"I used to be diverting," he said to himself in his Charles Boyer voice.
Then his head commenced drifting over toward the window beside him. Abruptly he made the transition from being awake to being asleep.
He was in Boston with a hot yellow sun blazing directly above. He was wearing the shorts he'd borrowed from the man on the station platform.
The idea was that he had to win the Boston Marathon—win, not merely come in second or third—or something astonishingly terrible was going to happen to H. J.
Ben was jogging along with at least a thousand other runners, but he was having a hell of a time making any progress. That was mainly because the street was filled, knee high, with dark, sticky molasses.
"You can't run through molasses," he complained to Sankowitz, who was now slogging along beside him.
"Just ignore it," advised the cartoonist.
Thunk!
Ben's head banged the window and he awakened.
He cleared his throat, trying to give the impression, in case anyone had noticed, that he hadn't actually fallen asleep at all.
Very carefully, he shut his Times, folded it, and placed it on the empty seat beside him.
Resting both hands on his knees, he took a few more slow, careful breaths.
Suddenly he sat up and said aloud, "Molasses."
A gray-haired man across the aisle, banker or stockbroker almost certainly, frowned briefly at him.
"It's my mantra," he explained, grinning in a way he hoped would make him seem harmless.
There'd been molasses spilled all over Post Road in Brimstone yesterday. H. J. had told him about it, and there'd been a story in the paper. The stuff had filled the street at about 12:40 P.M. or so.
But Larry Dahlman had claimed to be running. Straight up Rivergate Road, across Post Road and beyond before turning back for the office again. Did it every day. And he'd told H. J., just after the killing, that he'd done the exact same thing yesterday.
But he couldn't have run up that way and across Post Road, because that intersection would've been closed to both cars and foot traffic by the time he got there.
This morning, just now on the platform, Larry had given him an amended story. He was claiming today that he'd run an alternate route. That was because he'd found out about the spill between the time he'd talked to H. J. and the time he talked to Ben.
A small point probably.
But why had he lied about it? And which version of his run had he given to the police? Well, maybe neither. They probably hadn't questioned him in any detail.
It was possible, though, that he hadn't been running during the time of the killing.
Okay, but it could be that he was shacked up with somebody's wife and didn't want to mention it. Or maybe he was simply off having a pizza and a couple of brews and thought that would spoil his jock image with H. J.
So why's he rushing into the Apple today?
His brother-in-law has just been killed, his sister is taking over the running of the Dahlman publications. His place was in Brimstone.
But he obviously had an important meeting with somebody in New York City.
Ben figured he ought to be able to find out who the meeting was with. Larry was on the same train, and he simply had to follow him
He would have about a half hour after getting into the city before the lunch at the Hotel Dunkirk started. He'd use the time to tail Larry Dahlman.
He picked up the newspaper again. He felt wide awake.
Larry didn't go far.
From Grand Central he led Ben along Forty-Sixth Street over to Third Avenue. Looming up in midblock was a new glass and metal building.
"Well, blow me down," exclaimed Ben in his Popeye voice when he realized where his quarry must be heading.
It was the Timberlake Building.
Striding rapidly, Larry pushed through the revolving doors.
Ben had kept a quarter block behind him. As he approached the doors himself, he slowed to take a look up at the glistening building. Even on an overcast day, it seemed to glow.
Suppose Sue Ellen Timberlake were alive somewhere? She'd own all this.
Or a goodly part of it anyway. At least the first twenty or so floors.
Just as he reached the doors, they spun and disgorged someone.
"Exactly the person I most want to see. Were you coming to visit me, Benjy?"
Laura Timberlake Barks was about ten pounds heavier than when last he'd encountered her, her hair a deeper shade of brown. She was tanned, wearing an obviously expensive suit and no makeup or jewelry.
"Oh, are you that Timberlake?" He tried to look beyond her and into the building lobby. "'Actually, Laura, I was merely passing by."
"You obviously don't love me."
"Oh, so?"
"You haven't hugged me or kissed me."
"Does doing an occasional radio spot for Sudz give me hugging privileges?"
"We're old pals, aren't we? Many's the time you've saved my sanity during a commercial recording session."
Nodding, he asked, "You heading for the awards lunch?"
"Yes." She took hold of his arm. "Mostly because I was informed you were a shoo-in for a Pete award for those wonderful Sudz spots you did for us."
"A Paul award."
"Whatever. Some sort of prestigious dornick."
"Is your affable brother in town?"
She pointed her free thumb in the direction of the Timberlake Building. "Don T's up in his playpen," she answered. "Much too busy, he claims, for the lunch."
"A pity."
"Yes, isn't it? Probably many of your acting and advertising cronies haven't as yet seen the biggest schmuck in this part of the world." She dragged him over to the curb. "I'll give you a lift to the hotel, Benjy."
"Fine. Have I, by the way, ever mentioned that, because of eccentric christening notions of my mother's, my complete and total first name is Ben. So there's no need to call me any diminutives of Benjamin."
"Would you be interested in, oh, one hundred thousand dollars?"
"Just for allowing you to continue calling me Benjy?"
A long, gray limousine pulled quietly up to the curb. A slim Hispanic young man in a flawless white suit rushed from the
driver's seat and came around to bow to Laura. Then he opened the rear door for her.
"Gracias, Miguelito." Smiling, she slid into the shadowy interior of the limo.
Ducking, Ben followed. "'About the hundred thousand—is it a bribe?"
"You may not have heard yet," she told him as the driver eased the limo back into traffic, "but we're starting to test-market a new product. Sudz, Jr."
"Laundry soap for kids?"
"Exactly, Ben. Our agency on this account—Nolan and Anmar here in town—has come up with a cute little kid to be a sort of mascot and spokesperson. Baby Bubbles."
"Very cute."
"You'd be absolutely perfect to do the voice of the little putz." She took hold of his arm again. "It must have been fate that brought us together just now."
"Not quite," he said.
Chapter 11
As H.J. started across the parking lot, the front door of Dahlman's dark limo swung silently open.
A large, wide-shouldered blond man in a tight-fitting dark suit stepped out into the gray afternoon. Smiling shyly, he nodded in her direction. "Ms. Mavity, is it?" he asked in a voice faintly tinted with a Scandinavian accent.
She stopped. "Yes."
"I'm Bjornsen."
"Yes, so I've heard."
The big chauffeur inclined his head toward the rear door of the limousine. "If you'd mind standing there for a moment, Ms. Mavity?"
"What's this for—a Civil Defense test?"
"Mr. Dahlman would like a word."
She rested her portfolio against her leg and frowned at the tinted side window. "He's in there?"
The window slid silently halfway open. A very old hand, leathery, etched with intricate wrinkles, blotched with age spots, appeared and clutched the top of the rolled-down glass. There was a large gold ring on the ring finger and a soiled plastic bandage on the knuckle of the forefinger.
"Helen Joanne," said a dry, whispery voice from within.
"We've never met."
All she could see through the opening was shadows.
"That's true, Mr. Dahlman."
"You're quite pretty."
"Thank you."
Bjornsen had stationed himself near the hood. He was standing there, arms folded, gazing out toward the river.
The unseen Dahlman said, "Perhaps you can tell me something, young lady."
"Perhaps, sure."
"You were with my unfortunate son-in-law when he passed on."
She nodded.
"Did he . . . confide anything in you?"
"Only what I told the police."
"Sometimes we don't tell the police everything." The bandaged forefinger began tapping, very slowly, on the edge of the dark window glass.
"This wasn't one of those times."
"Lloyd didn't mention my daughter?"
"Nope."
"Or any other member of my family?"
"Nary a one, no."
"He didn't tell you where you might . . . find something?"
"He didn't."
"Thank you, my dear." The hand retreated into the darkness, the window shut.
"Well, nice meeting you," she told the window.
The driver was still watching the nearby river.
Picking up her portfolio, H. J. continued on into the Dahlman Building.
Eva, who was wearing black, unlocked the door to her late husband's office and said, "You see, dear? It's terrible." From the threshold H. J. surveyed the editor's room. It had been recently ransacked and hundreds of color photos and slides of naked young women were strewn on the floor. "'Any notion who did it?" she asked the widow.
"Could have been anyone." She shut the door, locked it again, and beckoned H. J. to follow her back to her own office. "Bare has a rather cheesy readership, and God knows which of our demented fans took advantage of the situation to break in and swipe nude photos."
"But did they actually steal any photographs? Seems like there are a ton of them on the floor in there."
"Lloyd must have had two tons of them stashed in there. He never threw a damn thing out." Eva returned to her desk, seating herself in the large black leather chair. "I used to tell him all that clutter was an eyesore, but he . . ." She trailed off, began sobbing. She yanked a tissue from a japanned box atop her wide metal desk.
H. J. sat in a chair facing her. "You have an alarm system. Why didn't it go off when they broke in?"
"There was such confusion here yesterday, with police coming and going, and reporters. Anybody could have slipped into the building unnoticed."
"It seems unlikely that anyone would trash his office while the cops were still on the premises. They must have waited until last night."
"Well, that's possible, dear. I don't know whether anyone remembered, in all the confusion and stress, to set the alarm system when we finally left yesterday." She blew her nose.
"Do you have any idea who killed Lloyd?"
Eva plucked a fresh tissue to blow her nose again. "I'm sure you were aware that he wasn't especially loyal to me. We were fond of each other, you understand, but Lloyd did tomcat around a good deal."
"What are you suggesting—a jealous husband or an angry lover?"
"Yes, that's certainly possible, considering all the women he's fooled around with. Someone may have decided to . . . well, to punish him."
"You think that's who searched his office?"
Eva learned forward. "You say searched rather than robbed, dear. Do you have reason to believe that Lloyd had some specific thing of value hidden in there?"
"It just doesn't appear that much, if anything, was stolen. But it sure looks like somebody was hunting for something," she answered, opening her portfolio. "Here's the Love's Claimant rough that Lloyd approved."
Eva took the drawing but didn't look at it. "'As Lloyd lay dying, did he say anything to you?"
"Nothing much. Certainly there were no dying messages."
"Not a word to indicate that he might have, oh, stumbled onto something lucrative?"
"Nope, nothing like that." H. J. shook her head. "What makes you ask?"
"You've started me thinking, and it occurs to me that lately, the past few weeks, Lloyd had been acting somewhat smug," the widow confided. "Well, he could be annoyingly smug a good deal of the time, but this was somewhat different. Maybe finally he really was on the brink of striking it rich."
"He didn't confide anything like that to me."
"As his widow, after all, I stand to benefit from anything like that."
"That's certainly true. But if Lloyd did have a lucrative secret, it died with him," she lied. "What about the cover?"
"The cover? Oh, yes, that is why I asked you here, isn't it?" Eva, brow wrinkling, studied the rough she was holding. "We need more cleavage, dear."
"So Lloyd mentioned."
"Also, I'm having the logo redesigned and made somewhat larger. You'll have to leave another half inch here and here to fit it in."
"That's no problem, Eva."
"All right, go paint us the cover then. Lloyd trusted you and so do I." She returned the cover sketch.
Dropping it in her portfolio, H. J. stood. "I'll have the finished art for you in a week or so."
"Fine, and keep in mind that even though dear Lloyd is gone, there'll still be a lot more assignments here for you."
"I won't be taking on any further assignments after this one, but thanks."
"So you're going back to Ben and giving up your career?"
"Nope, I'm going back to Ben and taking my career in some new directions." She crossed to the door.
"You escaped once, dear." Eva shook her head, sighing. "It seems a real shame to go back."
Chapter 12
H.J. hadn't intended to break any further promises. After her meeting with Eva, she'd come straight home to Ben's. She intended to finish cleaning up in the wake of the housebreakers.
This was also her night to fix dinner, and she'd have to start thinking about that problem soon.
A few minutes short of four the phone rang. "Mavity-Spanner residence."
"Oh, dearie me, I must have the wrong number," said Ben in his little old lady voice. "What I wanted, child, was the Spanner-Mavity residence."
"Where are you?"
In his own voice he replied, "Still in New York, which is why I'm—"
"Did you win?"
"The award, you mean? Matter of fact, yes."
"Congratulations. It's nice when your peers—"
"Listen, H. J., I'm up at the Nolan and Anmar ad agency. They want me for a voice in a new Sudz campaign and I have to sit in on a meeting. Starts at four and should run at least an hour. So don't look for me until after six."
"Speaking of Timberlake products, was she at the festivities?"
"Yep."
"Well?"
"And right now she's sitting one office over from here."
"So you can't talk?"
"Not with ease, no."
"Did you find out anything?"
"Some."
"Well, is she involved? Is the family aware that Lloyd—"
"I'm not sure. I'll—yes, dear, it's a cute baby character I'm doing. Should be great fun."
"Intruders?"
"Exactly. See you around sundown. And stay close to hearth and home, huh?"
"But of course. I already promised that I would, didn't I?" After hanging up, H. J. resumed gathering books off the floor.
Why had Laura Timberlake Barks offered Ben a job?
Well, maybe she hadn't. It could be the agency thought of hiring Ben entirely on its own and this was just a coincidence.
But it had to be deliberate, didn't it? They must want to keep an eye on him, pump him subtly, too.
But how did they know that Ben had any knowledge of Lloyd's search for the Timberlake heiress?
The newspapers had mentioned that H. J. was there when Lloyd got killed. And quite a few people knew she and Ben were together once again.
Frowning, she wandered into the kitchen.
"Damn it, I don't want anything to happen to him." She opened the refrigerator, began scanning its contents in search of an inspiration for tonight's meal.
"Maybe I can stir fry something."
There was a considerable quantity of snow peas in one of the crisper drawers.