Shellshock (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  “Before you, there were a hundred and twenty-two plus a few more.” I told her of all those calls Hazel had received yesterday, the three ladies who'd climbed the stairs in the Hamilton Building, the thirteen who'd appeared at the Spartan last night, and some additional calls I'd received here after that. “They're probably still phoning Hazel,” I said. “I think I'm in trouble. And I'm afraid to look in the lobby downstairs, though maybe it's too early—"

  She broke in, “Isn't it funny, all those women so anxious to get something they don't have any claim to, while I'm really his daughter and I'm not sure I want it?"

  “Yeah, you mentioned that before. Why not?"

  She sighed. “Depends a lot on how he got that money, or whatever it is. I don't know him at all, you understand, Shell. Last time I saw him, I was six. Haven't seen him since, and I barely remember him. But...” She hesitated, then continued, “According to what Mom has told me, back then he was a little crooked. Actually, a lot crooked. And, Shell, if he wants to give me anything he's stolen, well, forget it."

  “I can understand that. Still, it's a refreshing attitude."

  “Do you know what the assets are? Or what's specified in those papers I'm supposed to sign?"

  “Nope. I guess neither of us will until we get to attorney Worthington's office. I know Worthington pretty well, but all he told me is that the amount involved is in the millions. Several million bucks. Nothing to sneeze at."

  She crossed her arms in front of her body, pulled them against that tentlike blue-and-beige-striped jacket, or parka, or whatever it was, leaned forward, and said, “I know it isn't. It's tempting. I mean, no matter how Daddy got it. I just ... don't know.” She paused, thinking, faint frown lines forming at the bridge of her nose.

  “Well, you've got to decide,” I said. “My job is just to find you, take you to Worthington in Phoenix, Arizona, and then present you to your father at his home in Paradise Valley. And I should call him there soon."

  She stayed in that same pose, silently, for half a minute, then looked up at me. “Shell, with that much money involved, obviously everyone concerned will have to be sure I'm Claude Romanelle's daughter. Not just you, but that attorney, and even Daddy, too. I wouldn't know him if I saw him today, so how will he know I'm Spree? Fingerprints? I don't think I've ever been fingerprinted in my life. I suppose Mother could make an affidavit, or whatever the legal term is. And there are my school records ... It's not all that easy, is it?"

  “Easy enough. Might take a little time, but you've already answered the most important questions. Like a lot of background, your mother's maiden name, your own name, Spree, from Esprit."

  That little frown line was still between her eyes. “Yes, but couldn't one of those other ladies, those other Michelles, have found out those things—if they knew you were hired to find Claude Romanelle's daughter?"

  “Well, sure, I guess so, if they knew...” I paused. “That's a good point. But it was Claude Romanelle himself who told me you were called Spree as a tot, and that few if any other people would know that. Oh, yeah, he also said that after twenty years he undoubtedly wouldn't recognize you today, but his little Spree”—I smiled, a trifle stiffly, remembering other comments he'd made about his wee one—“could be positively identified by a birthmark on her ches—” I stopped. “On her, that is on your..."

  “Birthmark?"

  “Yeah, a little, oh, fly—no, not fly, bee?"

  “Flybee? What's a—"

  “Bee. Just bee. I mean, honeybee. You know, little bugs with wings, that sit on flowers and eat pollen, or—"

  “Oh!” She smiled brilliantly. The lights went on. The sun came up. Comets and asteroids collided like angel's sparklers. She sure had a great smile.

  “You mean my butterfly?"

  “Butterfly?"

  “I hardly ever think of it anymore."

  “Butterfly—yeah. Why didn't I think of that? I don't remember it exactly, but I'd say that's about right for describing the little grabber there on your ... there on ... Where is it, anyway?"

  “Right here.” She pressed her fingertips on the left side of that baggy scrape, or sweater, or outside vest, or body armor, or whatever it was. “Here, on my ... body."

  “Yeah. That's where it is. I remember, it's almost exactly right there. Of course, at first I thought it was a bug, or fly sp—well, call it some little-bitty animal—"

  “Shell, that's twice now you've said you remember it. That's crazy. You've never seen it. Hardly anybody has ever seen it. So why do you—"

  “Hey, that's easy,” I interrupted her. “Didn't I tell you? No, I guess I didn't. But I've got a picture of it."

  “You what?"

  “I've got a picture of it—of you. Look, it's an old photograph your da—your father gave me, of you when you were an ugly little—when you were a little kid. About six years old. You were sort of wearing swim trunks. And there's this little—thing, mark, on your chest."

  Her somewhat startled expression had become more normal as I spoke, and now she was nodding. “I see. At first, I didn't quite understand. But of course. After all this time, Daddy wouldn't know me from Emily Zilch. Even if I ran up to him and said, ‘Daddy, I'm little Spree!’”

  “Might confuse him. Might even alarm him. It's very curious. Spree, but he still thinks of you as his wee little—"

  “But only I—I mean, only the real Michelle Esprit Romanelle—would still have the little butterfly birthmark. So that's the one certain way to prove I'm Spree."

  “Makes sense. In fact, that's why Mr. Romanelle gave me the picture.” I paused. “Along with several warnings, and rather ominous—"

  “I guess I'll have to show it to you."

  “You ... will?"

  “That's the quickest way to prove who I am.” She nodded, looking at the corner of the coffee table. “Yes. I'm going to follow this thing through to the end. Daddy really does want me to sign those papers, for millions of dollars, doesn't he?"

  “Yep. Millions. A whole bunch."

  “So ... Well, I guess I'll have to tell you."

  “Tell? What happened to show?"

  “You see. Shell, my butterfly, the birthmark, is sort of right here.” She moved her fingertips gently up and down over the significant area. “Just a little of it shows under my bra,” she went on, “like the edge of its wing."

  “That's all, huh? No feet, or eyes, or—"

  “The rest of it curves up, on the underside of my ... of my breast."

  Either I imagined it or a flush of pink colored her soft, smooth cheeks. Must have imagined it. Women, young ladies, girls don't blush anymore. No matter what. Maybe sock you on the jaw. But blush, no.

  She sighed. “Well, I said I'd have to tell you. And I will. It's just still ... difficult, even after all these years. Not as difficult as it used to be, not nearly, but I still get nervous. Embarrassed. I know it's silly."

  “I think you lost me. What's silly?"

  “Oh, damn, this really is dumb,” she said. And then she went on in a rush, the words tumbling over each other, and—there was no doubt about it now—as she continued she was unquestionably blushing. Her face got very pink. Still astonishingly beautiful, but very, very pink.

  “It started when I was about twelve or thirteen, my breasts got so big everybody was always looking at them, at least the boys were, and then I got bigger, I mean older, and they got bigger, and by the time I was sixteen I'd gotten so self-conscious about them, and all the guys thought it—they—was—were—so great, they'd whistle and whoop and say the most horrible things about what they'd like to do with them, especially when the first rockets and space capsules went up—"

  “Rockets and space—?"

  “—so I finally just decided to hide them, and that's what I did, I hid them."

  “You did? Hid? Where? How?"

  “I covered them all up. With billowy baggy things like this. Like this cover-up.” She plucked at the blue-and-beige-striped contraption I had eyed a
skance upon first glimpsing her.

  “Ah,” I said. “Umh-humh."

  “When I wear things like this, nobody can tell if I'm flat-chested or barrel-chested or what, at least nobody can know my breasts are so, well, healthy—I mean, nobody can see that they're so big, and stick out so far—"

  “This will probably sound a little odd, Spree, but would you mind saying that again?"

  “And finally, from the time I was sixteen, I could at least stop feeling so embarrassed all the time, and blushing all the time. I thought I was almost over it, and I hate to blush—I guess I am now, though."

  “You sure are. It's a beauty."

  “Well...” She let out a big, big sigh. Having been forewarned, I could see the nubby cloth of her cover-up rise, and rise, and start to fall, like a sheikh's tent in the desert preparing to sail away in a gale.

  “I'd better stop chattering away like this. And putting it off. I know I've got to show you my butterfly sooner or later, Shell, so I might as well do it right now."

  With a smooth fluid movement, she lifted the thick garment up and past her face, over her gold-blond hair, dropped the blue-and-beige-striped cloth on one of the hassocks. Above the blue skirt that had been visible below the bottom edge of the blanketlike cover-up, she wore a simple pale blue blouse with four large ivory-colored buttons down its front, the cloth of the blouse concealing, but concealing only in comparison with the cover-up's totality of concealment, and stretched tight over, what had to be the astonishing magnificences Spree had been complaining about.

  Spree's left hand was resting in her lap. With her right hand she unbuttoned the first ivory button, then the second. I reminded myself that we were conducting a serious investigation here. We were merely uncovering a vital clue. Even so, I was not entirely disinterested. In fact, my jaws were starting to ache. There went the third button, and then the fourth. Fourth and last. My jaws felt as if they had become permanently locked. Which probably explained why my teeth were starting to ache.

  Spree shrugged and slipped the blouse from her left shoulder, shrugged the other way and slipped it from her right shoulder as well, then dropped the pale blue blouse on the hassock and rested both hands in her lap, though some of her kept shrugging for a little while. Quite a bunch of her did.

  I was astonished, and in a strange state of shock, not only because Spree's bra-covered breasts were of such magnificent and eye-stretching proportions but because my first only-half-aware assumption that my caller must be “large” or even “fat” had been produced only because of the false impression caused by that striped camouflage tent she'd been wearing. Spree's waist was actually slim, the hips full and well rounded but certainly not fat, and even in those first seconds of our meeting I had noted the trim-looking ankles and shapely calves, which—now—I could see were in splendidly appropriate proportion with the rest of her.

  Spree sat still for a few seconds, both hands resting in her lap on the pale blue skirt, the now-exposed brassiere—which, though it is not of stupendous importance, was also pale blue and edged with a kind of frothy laciness—rising and falling with near-epic grandeur on her long slow breath.

  It was one hell of a time for it, but at that moment I heard clearly—as clearly as if it were the devil himself hissing hotly into my ears—Claude Romanelle going on and on about how overly protective, even maniacal, he had become concerning his “innocent little girl,” his “tiny sheltered child,” and even a few additional imbecilities he obviously made up while hissing.

  That was quite enough all by itself, but a second curious factor was that when I looked at Spree, whose great green eyes were now fixed on my face, I was able to look way down into those liquid and glowing depths, and there I saw that dumb innocent little tot in swim trunks, with her face scrunched up and lips pulled away from clenched teeth.

  With all that on my mind. Spree took a deep breath and let out another big wonderful sigh, looked closely at me, and said, “Shell? Are you all right?"

  “Nnnuh ... nope."

  It's possible she didn't understand my reply, because she went right on, “Well ... now that I'm finally started, it's not so bad."

  “Nope."

  “At least I'm not blushing anymore."

  “Nope."

  “You can understand why I was so embarrassed all the time, when I was little."

  “Yep."

  “I mean, when I was younger."

  “Yep."

  “There. That's a little bit of it."

  “Wha-at?"

  “Just a little piece of a wing. See?"

  She had placed her left hand beneath the bra, and lifted the left half of everything up an inch or two, or three, without apparent strain, and was pointing with her right index finger. Then she rolled those big green eyes up to look at me, still down at the far end of the divan but leaning way over.

  “Shell,” she said curiously. “Are you—yawning?"

  “Certainly not. I was just stretching my jaws around, trying to get some circulation back into my gums."

  “Can you see it all right from over there?"

  “Oh, sure, I hope to shout—ah ... you mean the little ... No, not very well, actually."

  “Maybe you ought to scoot a little closer."

  I came very close to overscooting, but bounced to a stop as Spree pointed again, saying, “See? There?"

  “Ah, so. Yep."

  On her smooth skin, over the rib cage and below the bottom edge of the bra, was a small light brown area, curving down only about a quarter of an inch and then sideways half an inch and up again, up and away to disappear beneath the wild blueness yonder.

  “Yeah, boy, I can sure see it now,” I said enthusiastically. “No doubt about it, there's some of the little, um, insect. That's what it's got to be."

  “Insect?” Spree said, still holding her splendid breast aloft.

  “Well..."

  For a moment I couldn't remember what the damned little bugger was supposed to be. “I know it isn't a bird,” I said. “And I know it isn't a, well, any kind of hairy animal—"

  “Butterfly?"

  “Butterfly! That's it! I knew that. It was right on the tip of my ... erumm.” I examined it closely.

  “That's only a little bit of it, of course,” Spree said.

  “Oh, sure. I can see that. Merely a mere piece of a wing, exactly the way you described it. Rest of him must ... Or her. Hard to tell about—let's say him. Must be, mmmm, hidden in there. Looks like he's trapped, struggling to free his little flapper, and then fl—"

  “When you see all of it, then it really does look like a butterfly. There's a lot more, of course."

  “Of course."

  Spree—or at least Michelle, though I already felt quite confident about calling her Spree—had stretched her arms behind her back and was fiddling with one of those Chinese-puzzle doodads women use to hold the back ends of their brassieres together in an iron grip, sometimes forever. She fiddled for a while, and I started wondering if she had two doodads.

  “Well, here goes."

  That's what she said. But she was still fiddling. Ah, but no. She'd solved the Chinese puzzles some time ago. The bra, and everything, was still in place only because she was hugging her arms to her sides, a slight frown on that lovely face. “Let's see,” she was saying, apparently to nobody in particular, certainly not to me, “how...” The suspense was excruciating. “How ... shall I do this?"

  “Any old way?” I suggested.

  But then Spree cupped one pale-blue-bra-covered breast in her right hand, slipped her left hand under the other side of the bra, and let the cloth there fall to hang dangling, left hand cupping and covering that suddenly unveiled breast, or at least hiding some of it. Not a whole lot, really.

  She repeated the process of lifting her now-bare breast an inch or two, or three, up in the air, but it was an entirely different process from the one she had processed only a minute or so before. It was movement in a different dimension entirely, a fragme
nt of erotic fantasy, a —

  “What did you say?” I said.

  “It does look a lot like a butterfly, doesn't it. Shell? I just asked if you recognized it."

  “Ah. So that's it. I got the funny feeling I was about to say ‘No, I sure don't’ and I couldn't even remember the question. But—sure. Yeah. That's it. Got to be. What else would it be?"

  “You told me the truth, didn't you. Shell?” She sounded suspicious. “That you have a picture of it? To compare it with? A picture that Daddy gave you? I'd hate to think ... Oh, I'd hate to think—"

  “Don't think. I mean, don't panic. Hold it right there!” I stopped, knowing I was grinding my teeth again. “Funny—that's what private eyes are supposed to say to tough guys when they want them to freeze! Hold it right there, turkey! But I sure don't want you to free, Spreeze. Ah ... Forget it. It's not important."

  “But you do have—"

  “Yep. Yep. A picture given me by your da—father. Photo of you by a pool, or plunge, taken when you were an ugly little—when you were a wee kid. Let me collect my thoughts here. Yes. In the photo, you can see the little butterfly on your, ahh, umm, chest. A butterfly, I mean, once you know what it is, of course. First time, I thought it was just a little fly speck—damn! Did it again, diddle I?"

  “Diddle—what?"

  I was shaking my head in wobbly frustration. Women simply do not screw me up so entirely. Not ever before, anyhow. I told myself that I would from now on force myself to remain cool, cool and aloof.

  “Just—hangover from an old, old joke,” I said. “See, this weird-looking old guy goes up to the meat counter and says, ‘Gimme a pound of kiddlies.’ Butcher says, ‘What?’ Guy says, ‘Gimme a pound of kiddlies.’ Butcher says, ‘You mean kidneys, don't you?’ Guy says, ‘I said kiddlies, diddle I?'” I paused. “Great. How's that for aloof?"

  “A what"

  “Loof,” I grumbled. “Guy tells dumb jokes at a time like this, that's cool."

  “Well, you can see it's not a tattoo,” Spree said.

  “A what-too?"

  “Tat."

  “You're starting to sound like me."