Gumshoe for Two

by Rob Leininger

  “Really?” she said. “You want me to cover up?”

  “I know it doesn’t have a blessed thing to say about pi, but hang onto it anyway.”

  “At least it’s a nice color. Nice picture on the front, too.”

  “Glad you like it. Let’s go see what Martin’s up to.”

  We went outside. Sarah shivered in the dusk, put the sweatshirt on twenty feet out the door. “Okay,” she said. “Good call.”

  I had Martin Harris’ address, but the streets were a tangled mess of spaghetti looping through the hills. I bought a local map at a Chevron station. Harris had a place on Goldfield Road, half a mile out of town, east of the highway.

  We went a quarter mile uphill, turned left onto Goldfield, went past a few trailers sitting on dead, patchy yards, then around a low knob of rock fifty feet high. A few houses came into view, one of them the Harris place—single-story clapboard in a fenced-in yard. A shed was in back, three stunted pines out front, a three-car detached garage with its doors down, a four-wheel ATV with fat tires at the east side of the garage. The front windows of the house had a view of fifteen or twenty miles of brown rock and scrub sage in the valley to the north.

  Martin Harris might take exception to people watching his house from a parked car, but knocking on the door and asking about Reinhart’s hand wasn’t an ingenious option either. I drove slowly past the place while Sarah and I took it in, didn’t see an SUV of any description, then kept on going.

  I turned around at a wide spot in the road a quarter mile away and came back.

  “This isn’t working,” Sarah said as we passed the place again.

  “No shit, Shirley.”

  “We don’t know what’s inside that garage, Mort.”

  “At least we found the place,” Great Gumshoe replied.

  “Good goin’. Be nice if we knew what this guy looked like, huh?”

  “Yup.”

  “You’ve got that moustache on, and that nasty wig.”

  “Nasty?”

  “Actually, it suits you. But the point is, you could go knock on the door and ask something, like does he know the . . . the . . . well, pick a name, like the Dellarios. Which of course he won’t, but least that way you could get a look at him.”

  “Or you could go ask.”

  She shook her head. “Nope. I might have to talk to him in a bar or a Laundromat or something. He might talk to me, but not if I’ve already knocked on his door. Especially if he’s hiding something.”

  Well, shit. She was already a greater gumshoe than I was. I was going to have to rethink this career move.

  “Let’s go back to town,” she said.

  I thought about that, then did as she suggested. I dropped her off at a Scolari’s supermarket on U.S. 95 and Air Force Road.

  “Be cool,” she said.

  Advice from an expert. I waved, headed down 95 then east on Goldfield, pulled into Martin’s driveway, got out and went to the front door, rang a bell. Behind me, the last rays of the sun were giving some high cirrocumulus a faint pinkish cast.

  A woman answered. Late sixties, gray-haired, heavy, pleasant face, in jeans and a work shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway to her elbows. “Yes?” she said. “Can I help you?”

  Expecting Martin to answer, I thought fast, which took a while. “I’m looking for the Dellario place, ma’am. Thought it was here on Goldfield Road, but it’s been a while—nine years—and I don’t have the house number, so . . . I can’t find it.”

  “Dellario? I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard of them.”

  “Him, unless he got remarried. Guy I knew in college. I, well, I guess it’s a long shot, but maybe your husband might know him.”

  “Marty’s out right now. I sent him off to buy milk. He’ll be back soon, if he doesn’t get to talkin’ with anyone, which is what he does.”

  No information. Perfect. A glance behind her told me the house was well kept, with decent furniture, good carpet. A Mercedes SUV might be a stretch, but maybe not. The mortgage on this place would be half of what it would be in Reno.

  “I’ll stop by later if I can’t find Bill,” I said. “Bill Dellario. I’d really like to see him, or find out what happened to him.”

  I wasn’t sure how that pile of lies was going down, but her face didn’t change expression. She looked like a nice person. And she didn’t fit the description of the thirty-something woman who’d been driving Allie around—if it was Allie. But she could have a daughter about the right age and the DMV said the Harrises owned a green Mercedes SUV, so the situation was still fluid.

  “You could come in and wait,” Martin’s wife said. “I’ve got a pot of coffee on.”

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am. But there’s a few things I ought to do in town. I’ll stop by later if I haven’t tracked Bill down.”

  “I’ll let Marty know. Well, I guess that’d be sort of hard since I didn’t get your name.” She smiled at me.

  “Earl,” I said. “Earl Johnson.” Damn good thing that popped out. I could see myself hopping around, face red, cheeks puffed out, looking like a real winner as I tried to come up with a name.

  “Earl, I’m Janet. My husband is Martin—Marty.”

  I said good-bye and left, drove back to the supermarket. Holiday was outside, talking with an elderly man in the parking lot. They were standing beside a green Mercedes SUV. The old guy had his door open but he wasn’t going anywhere. I pulled up three spaces away. As I watched, Holiday took off her sweatshirt, shook out her hair, pushed her chest out another inch as she took several seconds to turn her sweatshirt inside out, then put it back on. Inside out? But she’d gotten the bulky thing off and had the old guy’s full attention. I sat in the car watching them talk, then got out and circled far enough around the Mercedes to catch Holiday’s eye, then went into the Scolari’s.

  She came in five minutes later.

  “How’d it go out there?” I asked.

  “It’s not them. I mean, that’s not the SUV people have been seeing up around Gerlach.”

  “How’d you get that?”

  “Marty and I are buddies. I asked him how he likes his car and we got to talking.”

  “Uh-huh. Marty liked your chest, too.”

  “What he could see of it when I thought to turn my sweatshirt inside out. I didn’t want him to leave right away. Anyway, he was rear-ended down in Vegas a week and a half ago and his car’s been in the shop since then. He got it back two days ago.”

  “That’s convenient. Wonder if we can verify that.”

  “I got the name of the body shop. He said they did a ‘real fine’ job so I asked him for the name in case I ever need one.”

  “I’ll have your gumshoe license printed up in the morning.”

  She beamed at me, then took me by the arm and led me out to the Toyota. “Okay, now I want a shower. Then dinner.”

  “A shower, huh?”

  “That’s right.” She gave me a look. “You up for that?”

  A shower? With Holiday? Nope.

  “Nope,” I said, just to avoid confusion later.

  She made a face at me.

  We drove back to the Mizpah and went up to our room. She started removing clothes, sweatshirt and T-shirt first. “A shower, Mort? That’s all, I promise.” She looked down at herself. “Except . . . you could help me wash these.”

  “Looks like a big job, but no, I’m good.”

  She made another face then pulled off her jeans, folded them, set them carefully on a chair. She strolled to the bathroom in panties, then turned and stood in the doorway.

  “Last chance.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll read.” I’d already got my Lescroart book out of a duffel bag. I held it up, showed it to her.

  “Spoilsport. Jeri okayed it, by the way.”

  “Okayed what?”

  “Us, showering. You know, if it happened to happen.”

  I stared at her. “She did?”

  “Uh-huh. A shower, no serious touching. But, yeah.�
�

  “Serious touching? What the hell’s that mean?”

  “She didn’t spell it out exactly. But I think it meant the sort of thing that might tend to escalate—which I promise it wouldn’t.”

  “Sounds like something that could’ve used more clarification. But the point’s moot anyway. Y’all have yourself a nice scrub.”

  “Your loss.”

  “Go.”

  She went. I believe it’s a sign of ongoing maturity that I read another ten pages of Lescroart’s A Plague of Secrets while Holiday got wet and naked and I could have been in there, and possibly some sort of limited touching had been okayed by my dippy fiancée with whom I was going to have to have another in-depth talk even though she’d spouted some nonsense about hoping our last talk would be the end of it.

  Don’t think so, Jeri.

  Holiday came out au naturel, doing something impromptu with a towel that might’ve been an inept attempt to dry off. I think that’s what she was doing, but it had the flavor of something done decades ago onstage with ostrich feathers.

  “Your turn,” she said. “Unless you want to watch while I dry my hair.”

  I set the book down. She looked terrific—slender hips, three-quarter Brazilian trim, great legs, flat stomach. Jeri trusted me. She had encouraged me to give Holiday this, but after half a minute my retinas started to overheat so I got up and headed for the bathroom.

  “Gonna shower in your clothes again?” she asked.

  “Yep.”

  “You could undress out here, not get your clothes damp in that fog in there.”

  “Maybe next time.”

  Hands on hips, she stared at me. “Have you never been naked in the presence of a woman before? I mean, really.”

  I went into the bathroom.

  She stuck her head in. “Hey, fair is fair.”

  “Life isn’t fair, kiddo.”

  I shut the door and locked it. From the other side I heard a muffled voice say, “For the record, I’ve seen erections before.”

  Great.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DINNER WAS DOWNSTAIRS in an ornate dining room of expensive wallpaper, walnut and mahogany, plush carpet and chandeliers, with the kind of prices that tend to make my eyes bulge. But we were told it was already paid for. The final bill, whatever it might be, was covered by a credit card. That would be Jeri’s. This was a business expense incurred during an investigation, so the IRS was getting gouged roughly 25 percent. With the wine, that would run thirty-eight dollars, so I figured the president wasn’t going to make it to Martha’s Vineyard next year.

  Holiday wore a blue silk dress with a modest amount of cleavage showing. She looked terrific. On the other hand, I looked ridiculous in the blond wig and moustache—which made the Lambrusco Red, lobster tails, steak, baked potato, and the crème brûlée a chore, and made Holiday smile.

  A glance up the street after dinner told us there was no point in walking around, especially with the temperature in the low forties and dropping, so we hit the Wyatt Earp bar and spent a couple of hours running the tab up another forty-two bucks. Holiday turned heads and I got looks that said “what the hell is a girl like that doing with a dipshit-lookin’ loser like you.”

  Holiday switched to Long Island iced teas, which promised to be interesting. Halfway through her second one, she said, “I told Jeri about my . . . my past.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Which is why she’s okay with us being together like this. One reason, anyway.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You sure do ‘uh-huh’ a lot.”

  “Only when I don’t have any idea how to respond.”

  “You’ve never asked me much about my past.”

  “I know you were in the Peace Corps. And you’re a pretty good pool player and a hell of a serious student.”

  She made a face. “There’s more. I mean, I’ve been kind of . . . you know, free around you. I feel like I owe you an explanation.”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “I’ll think about it. Anyway, I wouldn’t tell you here. Maybe later, upstairs.”

  “Well, then, how ’bout another Long Island, kiddo?”

  “Oh, sure. Get me drunk, get me loose. You’re a bad person, Mort. Really.”

  “Everyone says so, so it must be true.”

  “It is. Okay, I’ll have one more of these little puppies.”

  She drank less than half so she wasn’t slurring her words much and she didn’t stagger up the stairs to the fourth floor, but I had an arm around her waist to make sure she made it safely.

  I am trained and therefore skilled in the art of taking clothes off a woman who’s had too much to drink. Turns out it wasn’t necessary with Holiday, but she did have me unzip her dress and hold her arm while she stepped out of it. She ambled off to the bathroom in panties, and I heard teeth being brushed. She came out, no longer overdressed, and piled into bed. “Your turn.”

  I went in, came out minutes later in underwear, which earned me another, “Spoilsport.”

  I got into bed, kept the offending article of clothing on, and turned out the light. She moved a little closer in the dark and found my left hand, held it in both of hers.

  We lay there for five minutes without speaking, connected by hands, then she said, “When I was young, my father was killed in a motorcycle accident. Some guy ran a red light and Dad was hit by a car doing over forty miles an hour. He died instantly. He was twenty-seven, three years older than I am now—practically a kid, now that twenty-seven doesn’t seem very old anymore.”

  I murmured something about being sorry, but she didn’t respond to that. Holding my hand was all she wanted or needed. She gave it a little squeeze from time to time as she talked. This, then, was what Jeri knew, what she had heard. Maybe all of this with Holiday was about to make some sort of sense.

  “I wasn’t quite five years old when he was killed. Allie hadn’t even turned one. Suddenly my mother was alone with two kids. She was only twenty-six. I can’t imagine being twenty-six with two kids that young, husband gone like that.

  “But she was incredibly beautiful and still young. Half a year later she married a nice enough guy—Gerald. Her name is Barbara, by the way, but everyone calls her Barb. Gerald was twelve years older than her, not a lot, really. It’s not like he got himself a trophy wife after dumping the first. He’d never been married, but he fell for my mom. Hard. They’re still married, in case you’re wondering.

  “He was in imports. Didn’t export anything. But he’d go off to Singapore to buy stuff, negotiate prices. And Bangkok, Hong Kong, Taiwan, the Philippines. Not so much to Japan. He was fairly rich then—not nearly as rich as he is now—but he was building up the business so he traveled a lot and he took his beautiful new wife with him every time, especially the first six or eight years.”

  The room wasn’t entirely dark. Light filtered in through filmy curtains across a window facing the main street. Headlights sent moving shadows across the ceiling. Holiday turned on her side and faced me. I could see the shine of her eyes. She held my hand a little tighter. A warm breast touched my left arm, which was distracting and nice because of my pig gene.

  “They couldn’t take me and Allie with them on those buying trips. They would go off for two weeks at a time, sometimes as long as a month. When they did, I stayed with my aunt Alice, who was . . . odd. Nice, but different compared to the rest of the world. She’s my mother’s sister, nine years older than my mom. Alice had, well, has, two kids of her own, which I’ve got to tell you about, but first you have to know that Aunt Alice, was—still is—a professor at the University of San Francisco. She teaches multiculturalism classes, among other things. She was a child all through the middle sixties and early seventies when hippies were big in San Francisco—all that flower children, free love, love-in stuff. She was too young to have gotten into it, but San Francisco is still a liberal city and there’s an aura of the hippie era hanging around today, especially around the Haig
ht.

  “Anyway, Auntie Alice proved she was into multiculturalism in a big way. She had two kids, two boys by different fathers, two different races or at least two different cultures. The first was Ravi—after Ravi Shankar, of course—and the second was Dylan, after Bob Dylan, but she would never call a son of hers Bob or Robert, of all things, so she went with Dylan’s last name.

  “Ravi’s father was Middle Eastern—Pakistani. He and Aunt Alice never married. They were together for maybe half a year. After she got pregnant, he took off, which I think suited her just fine. By the way, she’s fifty-five now and has never been married, and that suits her, too. Then came a Mexican guy, an illegal, who knocked her up and took off. Actually, I don’t know if either of them really took off or if she chased them away, but neither one was around long enough to have been like a father to the kids.”

  I said, “Ravi was older than Dylan, right? I’m trying to keep things straight.”

  “Uh-huh. Ravi is two months older than me. Dylan is two years younger. When my mom started traveling with Gerald, my sister, Allie, wasn’t two years old. Alice wouldn’t take two children, certainly not a kid eighteen months old. She said three children was plenty, more than enough, so when Mom and Gerald were gone, Allie stayed with Mom’s brother, Brett, and his wife, Gina. They had a girl—Misty—a month older than Allie, so that worked out.

  “I was five when I first started staying at Alice’s. So was Ravi, and Dylan was three. Innocent ages. And . . .”

  Holiday got up on an elbow and pressed her lips on mine, then hovered over me. Her face was a shadow, eyes reflecting pinpoints of light. “Things are going to get a little bit strange now. Not bad, but kind of strange.”

  “Okay.”

  She kissed me again, no heat, but a kiss all the same, then she settled back down like before, my left hand in both of hers, with that wonderful firm breast against my arm. I took it to be part of that non-serious touching Jeri had mentioned, so I did my best not to let it bother me.

  “Come bath time, Aunt Alice would toss all three of us in the tub together. At those ages, five and three, a lot of mothers do that to save time, get everyone clean at once. Back then that’s what we did, laughing, rubber duckies, plastic boats, lots of bubbles. I was at Alice’s four or five times a year, two to four weeks at a time. The boys became like brothers.