Trouble in Rooster Paradise

by T. W. Emory

  “But I’m the one who brought up Britt and her aunt.”

  “True. You gave her opportunity. All the same, casting aspersions is not something a person readily does regarding a genuine friend. Not without some hesitation, anyway. Especially when she’s talking to someone investigating a murder, and her words might indict that friend.”

  I weighed his words.

  “Another thing, Gunnar. We’d clearly interrupted her departure when we arrived. Yet there was no taxi waiting outside. So, unless she’d planned to take a walk—”

  “She was planning to drive the Packard.”

  “That would be my surmise, old top.”

  Walter’s words had a strange and soothing effect on my psyche. All of a sudden, my discarded first draft started to look salvageable—at least parts of it. Enough so as to pick it up off the floor and dust it off.

  Maybe, I thought, Blanche Arnot was involved with this whole mess after all. Ordinarily money would have been motive enough, but I sensed there had to be another factor with Blanche Arnot. While Britt hadn’t exactly come out from under suspicion’s shadow, I now had some reason to hope that she might. At least that’s the attitude I had when we parked near the Vista Court Apartments.

  “Any suggestions, for when we talk to Britt?” I asked.

  “There’s still reason to harbor misgivings about Miss Anderson, of course. For all we know, Mrs. Arnot telephoned her immediately after we left. And, if she has been warned, I doubt we’ll find her at home. If she is home, and she is somehow in league with Mrs. Arnot, then clearly Miss Anderson has been hung out to dry, as they say. But if she’s completely ignorant and innocent, I believe we can quickly determine it by asking her a few simple questions.”

  Chapter 17

  It wasn’t the need for a drink of water or a pee break or a question from Kirsti that got me to stop talking this time. It was the anguished look on her youthful face. My pause prompted her to say:

  “Man, Gunnar, I’d think at this point … I mean, with what had gone on between you and Britt and all … you’d want to talk to her in private.”

  I shook my head. “Believe me, I was tempted to suggest as much to Walter, but I didn’t dare.”

  “Why not?”

  “By then I didn’t trust myself, is why not. Besides, Blue Eyes, Walter seemed to have figured out how to cut this Gordian knot.”

  “Gordian knot?”

  “It refers to a complicated problem, which like a knot is hard to unravel but that someone clever might know how to quickly cut through, so to speak. And right then I felt I needed Walter along with me, because he seemed to have just the right questions in mind to ask Britt to get things unraveling.”

  “You make him sound like some kind of psychologist.”

  I laughed. “No. Walter Pangborn really liked people. He was a keen student of them. And it also didn’t hurt that he was well read.”

  “For sure.”

  “Now where was I? Oh yes ….”

  We stood on the small enclosed porch. Walter admired the hanging fuchsias and carefully fingered a few of the blossoms.

  Britt opened the door and wore that far off, besieged look she’d had while sitting at her desk the day we met. She flinched infinitesimally on seeing Walter’s face but recovered beautifully. When she saw me her troubled face transformed into a smile beaming nothing but warm welcome.

  I introduced Walter as one of my good friends. “I sometimes consult with Walter in some of my investigations.”

  She invited us in, no questions asked.

  “I stopped at the market after work,” Britt explained. “I just finished putting a few things away and was changing clothes when I heard your knock. Would you like some coffee? Or perhaps something stronger?”

  Thanks but no thanks, we said.

  Britt was wearing red denim pedal pushers and a white halter-top with yellow polka dots. She looked marvelous in spite of my suspicions about her. Walter and I sank deeply into the balloon cushions of her daveno. She plunged into the club chair.

  “I hoped you’d get back to me, Gunnar,” she said. “I was really worried when you went after Guy de Carter alone. I trust the police have him in custody.”

  “You could say that,” I said.

  Britt studied my face and one blond eyebrow lifted, telling me she sensed something was wrong.

  “What’s the matter, Gunnar? You look like you’ve come from a funeral.”

  “In a way. Someone shot and killed Guy de Carter.”

  She looked genuinely alarmed. “How dreadful. Is … is that how you found him?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “Before I explain more, Walter and I would first like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  She looked puzzled but readily agreed.

  “Miss Anderson,” Walter said, “in your dealings with Christine Johanson, would you have characterized her as a shrewd young woman?”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Britt said. “Yes, I’d say Christine was fairly bright.”

  “Have you ever been driven anywhere by Blanche Arnot?” Walter asked.

  “What … what’s this all about?” she said, looking from Walter to me.

  “We’re not sure yet, Britt,” I said. “Humor us. Please.”

  “About Mrs. Arnot’s driving ability, Miss Anderson, would you say she’s a good driver?”

  “Yes … I suppose so. Perhaps a little on the slow side for my taste. Maybe a little too quick on the brakes. But yes, overall I’d say she’s a good driver.” Walter signaled me with a look.

  “Britt, could you tell us how Blanche Arnot viewed the Darcy men after young Addison ended his relationship with your aunt?”

  “I … I don’t understand. Where are you going with all this?”

  “Please, Britt. It’s important. What was Blanche’s reaction?”

  She hesitated, her face grew pale. “I … I suppose she was upset with them.”

  “You suppose? Only suppose?” I said.

  “No. They upset her.”

  “That was it? They upset her? She had no other emotion?” I asked.

  “Gunnar … why—?”

  “Indulge me. Please.”

  She sighed. “All right. Blanche hated them. She despised them.” I looked in vain for any sign of lying.

  “And when Alexis died?”

  “Even more so. But I suppose I did too, for a time. Why wouldn’t we?”

  “Did Mrs. Arnot ever speak of wanting to exact some sort of vengeance?” Walter asked.

  Britt didn’t say anything for a moment but then nodded. “But it was all just talk. You know how people go on sometimes. She loved my aunt as much as I did. We were both extremely agitated. You know how people say things. We all say things we don’t really mean.”

  “But she talked about it often, didn’t she?” Walter said.

  “Yes. Yes, she did. But she would never do anything rash—if that’s where you’re going with this. It was all just talk.”

  “What was Blanche’s husband like?” I asked.

  “Henry? Henry was a kind and mild-mannered man.” Britt laughed. “He used to say he was a mare yoked to a stallion. But he was good for Blanche. Blanche respects few men. She really respected Henry.”

  “A stabling influence on her, would you say?” Walter asked.

  “Yes. Yes, that would describe it, I think. Definitely.”

  “Stabling in what way?” I asked.

  Britt thought for a few seconds. “Blanche used to laugh and say that Henry kept her reined in and on track. She still says he kept her an honest woman. Why, she said as much less than a week ago. As I told you the other day, Gunnar, I sensed the difference in her since her loss. It’s one of the reasons I offered her a job.”

  As the saying goes, it takes some time to see the patently obvious. What’s right in front of your face takes even longer. An eerie notion jolted me. Blanche Arnot’s quaint, otherworldly air took on another meaning. Apparently the same notion had als
o struck Walter.

  “Did Blanche Arnot ever tell you the sad story of her friend, Sally Miller?” he asked.

  Britt was jarred by the question.

  “Yes. Often.”

  “Did she ever tell you the name of Sally’s lover? The man who treated her so shamelessly?” I asked.

  A gleam of troubled realization showed in Britt’s eyes. “Oh, yes. Right after my aunt took up with Addie. Oh, yes. She mentioned him many times.”

  Chapter 18

  “This was that bolt out the blue you talked about earlier, wasn’t it?” Kirsti said. “We’re talking critical mass time, aren’t we?”

  “Uh-huh. None of us is that remarkable, Kirsti. It doesn’t matter how exceptional a person feels they are. Most everything we all do is totally foreseeable, if the interested onlookers are armed with a few particulars. The trick is coming up with those particulars. And we three had come up with those particulars.”

  “And then it must have seemed so obvious, huh?”

  “Without question.”

  “I’m just glad Britt turned out to be on your team.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Mrs. Arnot had to know that we’d probably confute her story rather quickly,” Walter said. “So the only reason for her to lie so brazenly and cast suspicion on Miss Anderson here—”

  “Is if she were planning some immediate and drastic action,” I said, standing up. Walter rose with me. “She was getting ready to leave when we showed up.”

  “Precisely,” he said heading for the door. “She knew that whatever she told us wasn’t going to matter one whit.”

  I followed after Walter with Britt trailing behind me, demanding an explanation. We told her there was no time. She insisted on coming along.

  The three of us crammed into my Chevy, with Britt in the middle. I headed the coupe in the direction of The Highlands. En route we gave Britt the thin version of our suspicions regarding Blanche Arnot and the blackmail racket. She sat between Walter and me, and I caught snatches of her face in the rearview mirror. She listened calmly. She interrupted only with an occasional clarifying question. Her mouth looked pale and she searched my face when learning a horrid detail. I soon recognized her working-woman compartment—the pragmatic, reserved, and well-behaved box that probably helped keep her sane at such moments.

  After our tale was told, we all rode in a silence imposed by Britt’s need to digest what she’d heard. I kept up my furtive glances at her in the mirror. She sat composed but with a sour mouth for most of the trip north. A time or two I saw her quickly pin down her bottom lip with her teeth as it started to tremble. The unfolding events had shaken her world. I empathized.

  I finally broke the quiet when I saw the gatehouse in the distance. “How would Mrs. Arnot have gotten past the guard?”

  “She has friends in this community,” Britt said blankly, in almost a whisper. “She’ll have gained entrance easily. I’m sure of it.”

  “The question is, old top, just how are we going to get in?” asked Walter.

  I was hoping that the ex-bouncer Charlie would be on duty and remember me from before. But Charlie had been replaced by a guard named Bill. He approached the passenger side of my Chevy as Walter rolled down the window.

  Bill looked at Walter without any kind of reaction. “Costume party at the Nudell’s?” he asked. “Go right on in, sir.”

  And so we did. When we rounded the first turn I picked up the speed.

  Swinging into the driveway, we saw Blanche’s Packard parked closer to the house than the garage.

  The front door was open, the foyer empty.

  We made our way to the parlor where I’d had my talk with Addison Darcy. Hildy, the lean and scary housekeeper, was lying on the floor. I felt for a pulse. She was alive but now quite immune to more than just charming smiles.

  Walter picked Hildy up and placed her on a couch as I took my .38 from its holster. A telephone sat on a small table near the doorway. I picked up the receiver. The line was dead.

  A carpeted corridor shot off to our left and another corridor with a bare hardwood floor ran in the opposite direction. Britt and I took the latter. Walter whispered after us that he’d catch up after tending to Hildy.

  The corridor led to a sliding door with polished mahogany panels. The door was open partway.

  We headed for it.

  We didn’t think to kick our shoes off. We clattered and clacked on the hardwood despite our best efforts. A trumpet blast wouldn’t have announced our arrival any better.

  “Whoever you are, if you have a weapon, I advise you to drop it before you enter,” said a feminine voice that still sounded half its age.

  I slipped my gun in its holster and took Britt’s purse from her and let it fall to the floor. It made a fair cluh-thump noise. We waited a few seconds before she spoke again, “Well, don’t just stand there. Come in. Come in.”

  Britt and I obeyed.

  Addison Darcy’s study was huge and impressive, with soft rugs, dark-paneled walls, carved furniture and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Blanche Arnot sat on a leather-upholstered settee built into the nook of a large bay window. She was pointing a small automatic at us. On the rug in the middle of the room sat Addison Darcy. His hands were tied behind his back. His hair was tousled. He’d aged since our chat. He looked very old and very frightened.

  Mrs. Arnot gave us a courtly little nod as we entered. “Ah, Mr. Nilson, and you too, Britt dear. How delicious. I suppose I’m not really surprised that you’ve joined us,” she said. Her casual tone gave me a chill. “Mr. Darcy and I were just discussing old times. Reminiscing, you might say. I think it wise if you both put your hands in the air.” Her request was cordial, even motherly, but to disobey would have been deadly.

  The ultimate way of classifying people is by the acts they’re willing to commit. A pending act was evident. But was Blanche Arnot evil or just maniacal? Or maybe both?

  “It doesn’t need to happen like this, Mrs. Arnot,” I said.

  “Please, call me Blanche, Gunnar. You don’t mind if I call you Gunnar, do you? The way things are shaping up, we really should be on a first name basis, don’t you think?” She smiled. It was an expansive though intimate smile, but the madness in her eyes was just enough to make her look ugly.

  “Mrs. Arnot—Blanche. There’s no need for this. There are other ways to get justice,” I said.

  She sniffed derisively. “His kind buys justice,” she said, nodding her head at Darcy. “They always have. They always will. It’s been a long time coming, but this one’s luck has finally run out.”

  Britt and I traded glances. Startled eyes looked at me under the narrow crooks of her brows. When Britt spoke, her voice was unsteady.

  “Blanche … please. Why don’t you just put that gun away?”

  Blanche’s pale mouth seemed to detect an unwelcome taste. “You of all people should be grateful to me for this, my dear. It was this lustful animal who killed Alexis.”

  Addison Darcy was shaking slightly. He looked pleadingly at Britt. His cheeks glistened from the tear trails. Where the hell was Walter? I wondered.

  Blanche looked at the floor. I toyed with the idea of reaching for my .38, but gave it up as a bad job just as she raised her eyes.

  “It was you that knocked me out. And then you killed Guy de Carter,” I said.

  “That’s correct,” she said.

  Britt’s body braced as if absorbing a blow.

  I continued, “And after you killed him, you left me to be the patsy.”

  Blanche’s mouth spread out into an apologetic smile. “That’s correct, Gunnar. No hard feelings I hope. My, but you are deliciously astute. What else have you deduced?”

  “Enough, I think. You, Guy de Carter, Christine, and Meredith were in cahoots. Blackmail. The girls seduced ’em. de Carter took their pictures. And you collected the hush money. Discreetly, of course. Things were going just swell until Christine got greedy. Maybe she even figured she could strike out on her
own and eliminate management. Whatever the case, de Carter killed her and tried to make it look like Dirk Engstrom did it. Dirk’s angry outburst in the store was an opportunity to pin the blame on him that de Carter couldn’t pass up.”

  Blanche gave me the approving look a teacher reserves for her star pupil. “I misjudged Guy de Carter. He merely possessed a kind of raw cunning. The cunning of an alley rat.” She shrugged. “Both Guy and I were in the store that day by sheer coincidence. I was hoping to negotiate with Christine. She got greedy, just as you say. And Meredith … well, she had way too much pluck for her own good. But greed can be dealt with and pluck is a virtue, after all. The girls weren’t supposed to die. I didn’t want that. Guy just got too nervous, that’s all. That’s the trouble with womanizers. They don’t know women in the ways that really matter.” She looked menacingly at Darcy.

  Britt remained quiet. Her eyes were as big as prize cherries.

  I continued, “You tried to make me think de Carter was a harmless ladies’ man. Did you sic him on me, Blanche? Did you want him to kill me?”

  “Gracious no, Gunnar. Like I said, Guy got nervous about the girls, and he grew absolutely frantic when you began poking and probing. I must say, his attempts on your life were clumsy and amateurish at best. But I never intended for you to die. Not at first, anyway. I was mainly after this pathetic excuse for a man,” she said, pointing the automatic at Addison Darcy.

  Darcy’s eyes shifted from the floor to the gun and back again.

  “How did you know I’d come calling at the houseboat to see de Carter?” I asked.

  “I didn’t. It was another delicious coincidence. Guy was getting antsy and out of control. His precious car was being serviced so he’d borrowed my Packard. But he was derelict in returning it. Finally, I told him I wanted to meet to get my car back, and to talk things over. So I took a taxi to his place. I didn’t want a witness to my true destination, so I had the cabbie drop me a few blocks away. As I walked up, seeing you on the landing was a total surprise, I assure you.”