Trouble in Rooster Paradise

by T. W. Emory

  Britt Anderson was in her office and had only gotten more beautiful since I’d seen her last. She stood up when I entered. She had a remote, besieged look that turned to one of lovely calm when she saw me. The pinze-nez fell to her neck. Her serene and faultless face was decorously framed by waves of gold hair that seemed somehow more abundant today. She was wearing a glossy, emerald-green dress, drawn tight to her slender waist.

  Britt gave me a little grin and picked up a piece of paper from her desk. The rustling accordion pleats of her shiny outfit caused her to scintillate as she glided across the room toward me.

  Gunnar the Bedazzled.

  “That list of Christine’s repeat customers you wanted,” she said as she handed me the paper. Our fingers gently collided. “I presume that’s what you came for.”

  Did she mean the touch or the list?

  “I know you’re meeting Guy de Carter, but can you stay and talk a little while?”

  She smelled supernal. The fragrance was spellbinding. Essence of Allure is what I’d call it.

  “Uh-huh.” It was all my mesmerized brain cells could muster at the moment.

  There were two chairs near the door. She motioned for me to take one as she pulled the other around to face me. She eased into her chair and crossed a pair of hosiery-ad legs that sent bumps goose-stepping up my backbone.

  “When we talked on the phone yesterday, had I told you about poor Meredith?” she asked.

  I said she hadn’t told me, and I asked about poor Meredith.

  “She became extremely agitated at the end of the day yesterday. It’s like she had some sort of breakdown. We had to call a doctor. He gave her something to calm her nerves. I had one of the girls see her home.”

  It had looked to me like Meredith was keeping things together okay. But Britt and the others obviously knew her better. And Meredith had been chums with Christine. I figured she was more fragile than she appeared and finally snapped under the pressure of it all.

  “She’s lucky to have such good friends,” I said. It sounded every bit like the trite solace it was. Britt didn’t seem to notice.

  “I phoned her later and told her to take a few days off. I made it an order.”

  I nodded.

  “I didn’t mean to rattle on so,” she said suddenly and sighed. “You probably see things like this all the time in your line of work. Have you made any progress in your investigation?”

  “I suppose. If you call almost getting killed progress.”

  Britt looked horrified.

  “Who? Wha … what took place?” she asked, uncrossing her legs and leaning closer to me.

  “A driver of a dark sedan tried to run me down last night when I was getting out of my car. Fortunately I’d forgotten something. If I hadn’t turned back to get it, I wouldn’t be talking to you now.”

  Her mouth fell open. I told her about Walter coming to help me and what he’d witnessed. Her eyes grew wide.

  “Who … who could have done such a thing? Did your friend see the driver?”

  I shook my head. “But my guess is that someone’s not too happy about me looking into Christine’s murder.”

  She put both of her hands on my knees. I liked that. I felt the tingle of a fly-fisher with one on his line. Time to do a little reeling in.

  “I’m keeping a third eye open,” I said. “Someone’s obviously desperate, and I’m sure I’m not out of the woods yet.”

  Her eyes showed the empathy and compassion I’d seen the day before. It moved me. Well, it stirred me, anyway.

  Her hands left my knees and gripped my fingers. “Did you call the police?” she asked.

  “Yeah. It’s all taken care of.” I gently squeezed her hands in reassurance.

  “Doesn’t what happened to you prove Dirk Engstrom’s innocence?”

  “It could. But it’s also possible someone is trying to sabotage an open-and-shut case. Dirk still has a mountain of evidence piled against him.”

  “I see,” she said thoughtfully. “Can I be of any more assistance to you, Gunnar?” she asked, in almost a whisper. She moved her head closer to mine.

  I cleared my throat. “There is one thing you could do,” I said quietly. Actually I could think of several things, but none I could verbalize.

  “Name it.”

  I suggested to her the possibility that Christine had been having a love affair with one of her customers.

  “I suppose it’s possible,” she said. “So, what can I do?”

  “I’d like you to chat up some of Christine’s coworkers. Keep it cool and casual. See if any of the girls might know if she was seeing anyone special other than Dirk. These things are hard to keep from girlfriends.”

  “Meredith might know of someone. She was Christine’s closest friend.”

  “Right. I’ll talk to her again myself after she’s had a chance to rest a bit. I have a feeling she had more to tell me yesterday but was holding back for some reason.”

  Britt gave me a puzzled look. I left her that way. She agreed to help me out and said she’d get started as soon as I left. Our faces were almost as close as a couple of Eskimos ready to rub noses. She gave me a quick peck on the lips.

  “You watch out for yourself,” she said.

  “You can bet on it.”

  Chapter 9

  “The next thing I knew I was staring at bare naked ladies. Nine of them.”

  “What?” Kirsti said in a puzzled tone, a deep blush to her face and eyebrows arched in surprise.

  “Each of the ladies was in a different pose. Some were frolicking with scarves the size of drapes. They looked happy in a serene way and romping seemed to be their hobby. One of the gals held a small child and two deer were standing nearby. Across from them another child was riding what looked like a lioness.”

  “Wha … Where were you? A nudist colony? I thought you had to meet this de Carter guy.”

  “No, that’s Guy de Carter. And I was meeting him.”

  “At some burlesque show? I thought you set it up to meet him at some garden.”

  “I did. What I was staring at was in the rose garden near Woodland Park Zoo. It’s still there. I was facing a wall about my height, maybe a little taller. It’s a relief made back in the ’20s that gives credit to the Lion’s Club for the garden’s existence.”

  “Well, aren’t you the tricky one.” Kirsti said, trying unsuccessfully to act annoyed.

  “But Blue Eyes, before I continue, let me catch my breath a moment, and maybe take a slug or two from that water bottle,” I said, looking at her lazily.

  Guy de Carter was not punctual.

  It was 12:25 when I walked up to the small reflection pool to study the girlie show masquerading as art. The fountain where Guy de Carter wanted to meet sat thirty or forty yards behind me. Fifteen minutes went by. In that time I repeatedly fondled my .38 and had surveyed the garden four times.

  I looked around again. The sun was out. Warm temperature hadn’t joined it, but the chill in the air hadn’t kept visitors away. Nearby a young man whispered sweet somethings in his girl’s ear and got a smile for his honesty and an elbow in the ribs for his nerve. Beyond them, a middle-aged woman worked at an easel, desperately trying to capture a scene on canvas that was probably destined to grace a corner of a grandchild’s attic. To my left a delighted mother was pushing a perambulator and leading a dull-faced boy and grim-faced girl on a forced march of appreciation.

  I headed over to the fountain and saw a Fancy Dan approaching. He held a brown paper bag. It was a tough one to call. He was either my man carrying our promised duck dinner or some dandy out bootlegging smut. I walked over to him. Our eyes were about level. Milland was right. Guy de Carter did resemble Smilin’ Jack—complete with solid jaw and pencil-thin mustache.

  We shook hands. He was extraordinary and engaging. Within fifteen seconds he was Guy and I was “Sport.” He had a strangely prim mouth that expanded to show perfect teeth that were possibly all his own. A toothpick that passed for a
cigarette perched on his lip. He wore a Panama hat and a desert-toned gabardine suit. These went nicely with his tan Koolie wingtips—the kind of shoes riddled with hundreds of little holes to cool off overworked feet. But though it wasn’t hot out, Guy de Carter wore no socks, just to be on the safe side.

  “Thanks for accommodating me, Sport,” he said, leading us over to an empty bench. With the ease born of habit he took the saliva-laden toothpick from his mouth, bent it in half till it formed a V, and then flicked it on the nearby grass. He parked the paper bag between us and took out a couple of sandwiches and handed me one. “I had a meeting with the owner of the Chit-Chat Café over here on Forty-Fifth. It’s a small potatoes account, but it has its upside. That’s where I got this grub. On the house. I hope you like pastrami on rye.”

  “Love it,” I said, and took a big bite as proof.

  I gave him another look-over as he focused on his own sandwich. He was about my age. The dark hair showing under his hat was razor-cut and neatly combed. He had clean knuckles, manicured fingernails, and a deep tan that I’d have labeled asinine if I were any more jealous.

  “The honcho lady over at Fasciné Expressions told me you wanted to ask me a few questions.”

  I smiled. “Is that what you call her? Honcho lady?”

  He shrugged. “I call ’em as I see ’em. But mind you, I don’t call her that to her face.”

  “I don’t know. She seems to roll with the punches okay.”

  “Maybe so for you. But she doesn’t like me very much. I go in that hoity-toity gift palace only when I have to, and that’s not often. I know when I’m not welcome. Honcho lady is the chief hen in that rooster paradise—and believe you me she lets you know it. And with this rooster she’s all business and no pleasure, if you take my meaning.”

  I took his meaning.

  “You must like roses,” I said, glancing at the plants around us.

  “Not really, Sport. But women like roses. And I like women who like roses. This garden is just one of the spots I come to troll. And it brings back some good memories, if you take my meaning.”

  I did. He was a jaunty sort with a contagious grin and was loaded with that easy charm that made a woman feel appreciated, safe, and cared for. Until he got her in the sack, that is. Afterward she’d learn fast that she was no more than prey, or a commodity akin to a dishrag. And according to sultry Peggy, he played rough. Of course, some women like being quarry, and some think they deserve to be kitchen towels. And some put up with getting smacked around.

  Still, I felt like one of those blind men of Indostan, touching only my part of the elephant.

  “You strike me as someone who’d have no problems with the ladies,” I said.

  “I do all right. But then, I’ve had a lot of practice, Sport. I bet you’ve broken a few hearts yourself. We should hit the town together some night. It’d be a guaranteed hoot.”

  I laughed one of those social laughs I despise.

  “Ever feel like ending it all by settling down and getting married to the right girl?” I asked him just to ask. “Maybe have a few nippers, a dog, a cat, and a mortgage?”

  He shook his head. “Not this kid, Sport. It’s not my style.”

  “Aren’t you afraid the skirt-chasing will get old someday?”

  “Perish the thought. I figure I’ll just work on being more distinguished as I get older. A man can get away with it. A few flecks of gray at the temples will go well with the crows-feet that make an older man look the dasher. I’ll just use a new kind of bait for a different school of female fishies; that’s what I’ll do. A man’s got to revise and improvise, if you take my meaning.”

  “Revise and improvise. It sounds like you’ve thought through your future.”

  “You better believe it, Sport.”

  We ate in silence for a while. A couple of pretty bobby-soxers sauntered by. A real salt-and-pepper pair of teenagers that could easily play the movie parts for Archie’s Betty and Veronica. They peeked back at us over their sweatered shoulders and tittered and chirped.

  “Untouchables,” de Carter muttered.

  “Say again?”

  He nodded toward the girls, his nostrils flaring like those of a satyr in rut. “San Quentin quail. Jail bait.”

  He watched the girls disappear while I studied him. His satyr’s grin was pleasant. A friendly grin. A grin that told you he was harmless, companionable. The grin didn’t go with the tiny glint of coldness in his eyes that hinted at those parts of the elephant I couldn’t reach at the moment.

  I asked him about his work at the ad agency.

  He told me he was part idea man, part salesman for Sloane and Associates. “I’ve known Sloane for years. He gives me a pretty free rein. I come up with gimmicks and campaigns that sell the merchandise. I schmoose the clients. I wine ’em and dine ’em when needed. And believe you me, sport, I’m generous in pouring on the schmalz,” he said, giving me a wink. “Basically I sell merchants on my ideas and try to keep them happy and writing those checks.”

  “Do you like the work?”

  He shrugged. “I’d like to be rich, but who wouldn’t? Working for Sloane keeps me in food, duds, and trolling money. I have no real complaints.”

  I took our sandwich wrappings and walked over to a trashcan to make a deposit. When I returned he pulled out two cartons of milk from the paper bag.

  “Care for an after-lunch drink?” he asked, handing me one of the milks.

  I thanked him.

  “Is Guy de Carter the name you were born with?”

  He shook his head. “No. My mother named me Buford. Buford Carston. I had it legally changed when I got out of the navy after the war. Felt I needed a little more flair than Buford, and a wee bit more pizzazz than Carston. And the ladies do love the name. Gives me a continental air, don’t you know.”

  We slugged down our milk. I took the paper bag from him and crumpled it with our empties inside before saying, “About what you saw the day before yesterday ….”

  “Oh yes. The lover’s spat. I’d popped by the store to pick up some product samples to study. But tell me, sport, what exactly do you want to know?”

  “It sounds to me that when Dirk Engstrom started sounding off at his girlfriend, you were standing pretty close.”

  He nodded. “From about here to that geyser.” The fountain he pointed to was about fifteen feet away from us. “I was just leaving when the kid exploded. His girlfriend was spraying perfume samples for an old timer. The old guy was giving the girl his imitation of Count Dracula when the boyfriend came in and started shouting. Believe you me, I noticed.” He started to laugh. “The old timer and I practically bowled each other over trying to get out of the way.”

  “What all did you hear?”

  “Only a little. And not all that clearly. Who wants to be part of a fracas? Gramps and I slowly retreated together with the kid’s back to us the whole time. At that moment his girlfriend was the only one in the room as far as he was concerned. But I did hear the kid say ‘Or I’ll kill you.’ That came through clear as day.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  He crossed his heart and held his hand up.

  De Carter reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a fresh toothpick and hung it out of the corner of his mouth. I got myself an after-lunch clove.

  He went on with his story. “I thought his threat was just one of those things people say in anger. Who knew he’d really do it? Kill her that is.”

  He stared at me with pure-hearted astonishment, but his surprise was just a wee bit too earnest.

  “At the time the kid wasn’t hitting his girlfriend or anything. He was just beating his gums. So I got out of there after a minute or two. Like I said, I’m rarely in that place as it is. And besides, I was already late for an appointment.”

  He looked at his wristwatch. “Speaking of appointment, I’d better be on my way to my next one, Sport.”

  “One last question.”

  “Shoot.”

>   “What kind of car do you drive?”

  He gave me a curious look, a flicker of reappraisal in his eyes. “A ’49 Ford convertible. Maroon. I bought it new. Risky in our wet city, I know. But what’s life without a few risks. Am I right, Sport?”

  I told him he was right.

  “Why the interest in the make of my car?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Given the swath you cut, I’d have pegged you as a Packard man.”

  He laughed a laugh that could spread like cholera.

  “No. Not me. Packards are a little too conventional. Besides, the ladies like the open air. They like to feel the wind blowing through their hair. Candy’s dandy, and liquor’s quicker, but the open air makes ’em breezy and carefree. It’s all part of the game, sport. All part of the game.”

  We stood and shook hands.

  He handed me his business card and said, “Let me know if I can be of any further help.”

  I thanked him and studied his buoyant gait as he left the rose garden. I watched him get into his maroon ragtop. For Guy de Carter, the world wasn’t simply his oyster. It was an oyster with a healthy dollop of cocktail sauce to be swallowed whole with a champagne chaser.

  Sex has always been pretty high up on my pursuit of happiness list, but I liked to think I was a nobler cut of beefcake than Guy de Carter. At least I hoped so.

  Dames were dames to Guy de Carter. They were useable and disposable. Like clothes put on and taken off, or money that quickly changes hands. Always a new suit to be bought. Always some new bills issued by the mint.

  I couldn’t see any reason why de Carter would lie about what he’d heard. No apparent motive. But either he was lying or Dirk did indeed threaten to kill Christine and was denying what he’d said to cover his butt. Or maybe Dirk said so many stupid things in anger that day, he simply didn’t remember what all he said.

  I thought of the term Blanche Arnot had used for Guy de Carter: drugstore cowboy. I suppose it fit him. But while there were no silver spurs on his Koolies, he was no ordinary cowpoke. And he was definitely no harmless lothario.

  Mrs. Arnot said she’d seen de Carter in the store many times. De Carter told me he was seldom in the place. It could simply be a conflict of perception—one of them overstating the case. Or someone had just plain lied.