Shari looked both of them dead in the eye. She refused to blink, and they... well. I'm sure the idiots wanted to blink, but they just couldn't.
Nick caught Shari's thought-wave first. He laughed, shaking his head. "Naw," he said. "Naw! It can't be!"
Marty caught up. "Sharon? Sharon Heep? Is that really you?"
Shari's eyes were daggers now. The corners of her mouth were playing with a smile, but just playing. And then she batted her eyelashes—a wicked twitch. Stirred the straw in the Coke and took a dainty sip....
"It is her!" Nick slapped Marty on the back. "It is the Heepster! Jesus, Marty, it looks like old Sharon's been to charm school this summer!"
"Slut school, more like it," Marty replied, ever the quick-wit. "Hey, c'mon Sharon. Let's go for a ride, just the three of us. Let's see what you've learned this summer."
I said, "You guys got room for one more?"
Nick and Marty whirled. They hadn't heard me coming.
Once again, Nick caught on first. "Johnny!" He gasped, a look of horror crossing his face. "No... it can't be — "
Marty cut in with the clincher: "Christ, Johnny... you're dead!"
I nodded, flicking open the switchblade that Nick had buried in my guts back in June.
They froze—eyeballing the knife, their faces pasty-white—so I decided to help them out. "Let me steer you fellas in the right direction," I offered. "This is the part where you're supposed to run for your lives."
"Don't confuse them, Johnny," Shari said. "Don't be so literal."
"Sorry, fellas." I snapped the blade closed. "I mean, you don't have to run run—you can take the car."
Nick and Marty just stood there, staring at us as we returned to the Ford.
"Man, can you believe that they're so stupid?" I said.
Shari took my hand. "Believe it, Daddy-o."
Behind us, the Chevy's engine finally rumbled alive.
Four new tires burned rubber.
Nick and Marty were gone.
Pretty soon, they'd be the gonest.
"What was that junk you put in the Coke?" the carhop wanted to know.
Shari laughed. I didn't do a very good job of keeping a straight face, myself. But I did manage to set the model car on the serving tray.
"Decals," Shari explained between giggles.
"Yeah," I said. "We're a couple of hobbyists. We get together and build model cars. I guess we got a little sloppy tonight."
"It could have been worse." Shari's voice was suddenly real serious. "I mean, we could have gotten glue all over the french fries, or paint in the cheeseburgers, or something."
The carhop didn't seem to catch on. She frowned as she set a fresh Coke next to the model car. "Well, just don't do it again. Those darn what-cha-ma-call-ems are stuck to the glass. I bet it's going to take a razor blade to get 'em off. I mean, only a gomer would want to drink Coke out of a glass that says Chevy."
"Sorry," Shari said, and deep down I'll bet she really was sorry for putting the carhop to all that trouble.
The carhop skated away. We dug into our cheeseburgers, which hadn't even had a chance to get cold. Shari said, "I didn't think I'd ever want to eat again."
"You were really nervous, huh?"
"Are you kidding?" She swallowed another bite. "And it isn't like we're out of the woods yet."
"Sure it is."
She sighed. "C'mon, Johnny. We still have to go back to school. We still have to face everyone else."
"So what?"
"I mean, all the stories and everything...."
I shook my head. "It's like I said: this one little step, and it's all over. Nick and Marty were the biggest, toughest monkeys in that damn zoo. With them gone, it'll be easy."
"But what about you? Nick and Marty talked, y'know. I mean, I never would have found your grave if I hadn't listened to all the stories that were going around. And there'll be lots of questions when you show up again. Think about it, Johnny. You're going to have to explain things. Your parents are going to want to know what happened — "
"Those rummies?" My lips twisted into a smirk. "They'll be sorry to see me walk through the door. My old man will worry that I'll cut into the beer budget or something. Maybe I'll just stay in the boneyard. It's gotten so I kind of like it there."
"But everyone else — "
"Screw everyone else. Screw their questions. Who's gonna have the guts to ask 'em, anyhow? Who's gonna come up to a guy who's supposed to be dead and buried in an unmarked grave in the old cemetery... especially when the studs who supposedly gutted him and put him six feet under turn up dead? Who's gonna say a thing to that guy when he comes waltzing into school with a girl on his arm?"
Shari nodded. "Not just any girl. A freak who believed in ghosts and witches and things that go bump in the night. A freak who everyone laughed at." She took my hand. "Until she found someone who taught her to believe in herself."
"Yeah," I said, "but you had to dig me up to do it."
"Sometimes you have to be real desperate before you can really believe." She kissed me, a sweet schoolgirl peck on the cheek. "And, anyway," she added slyly, "some things are worth a little digging, y'know?"
We finished the cheeseburgers and drove back to the old cemetery, parking the stolen Ford between the same two broken-down mausoleums. Like I said, there was barely enough room to get one door open, so we both slipped out the driver's side. I left the radio on, because Dinah Washington was singing "My Man's an Undertaker." Somehow, it seemed appropriate.
There was a marble slab a few feet off. Spider-webbed with cracks, but pretty much level. I set the Chevy model on top of it.
"I wonder where they are," Shari said.
"Let's find out." I knelt down, put my ear to the plastic hardtop and listened for a couple minutes while Shari paced back and forth between two granite tombstones.
"No clue where they are," I said finally, "but you should hear the idiots yelling at each other." I stood up, shaking my head, and winked at Shari. "I can't figure out what surprised them more—that I'd come back from the dead, or that you'd turned into such a dead solid knock-out."
"Real funny, Johnny."
"Yeah." I sat on the slab. "Sorry. But I gotta tell you, Shari—your legs really made an impression on them."
"Why, Johnny Benteen, you're such a card." She laughed. "I never would have guessed that a dead guy could possess such a lively sense of humor."
"Ouch. Score one for the sexpot sorceress."
"This is so weird."
"The weirdest."
"Let's get it over with."
"You want to do it?"
She turned away. "I don't even want to watch."
I slipped Nick's switchblade from my pocket. Flicked it open. Pressed the sharp metal point against the miniature tornado that swirled on the model's flimsy plastic hood.
"Look away, little darlin'," I said. "Look up at that pretty sickle of a moon."
BAD INTENTIONS
IN MY LINE OF WORK, you often make your entrance in the midst of tragedy. It's part of the job. Death, especially sudden death, is never easy. Oh, it's a blessing for the dearly departed — I truly believe that— but it's hell on the living.
Maybe you think that's cynical; I think it's realistic. Just the result of keeping an open mind about life's little patterns. To break it down for you — when you see more than your share of people who have been battered in death's wake, you begin to realize that death isn't the end for them. It's only the beginning. The beginning of sleepless nights filled with questions, most of which begin, "What if..." The beginning of guilt and loneliness and, yes, the beginning of fear. And sometimes, when it is especially cruel, death plants the seed of madness in the rich soil of grief.
And in I come, tromping through the flower bed. Into a house that holds the stink of death— the smell of the hospital, the florist's shop, and the cleaning lady, all in one. Someone is gone from that house forever, and there I am, acting like I own the place, asking too many
impolite questions.
So I have to be able to put people at ease. There's no way around it. Just like the undertaker and the insurance man, I have to do my job without benefit of apology. I pay attention to everyone and everything in that completely inappropriate and unforgivably rude way, even though my behavior is sure to ruffle some feathers.
That doesn't mean that I have to be cruel about it. I try to avoid that. It's just something I have to do. I ask the tough questions and peek in closets and basements and rifle through drawers until I'm satisfied that I've seen everything. Maybe I find something and maybe I don't. Either way, I can't wear a chip on my shoulder or play it too rough. Not these days. All I can do is follow my instincts and hope that they're good. I tie everything up as neatly as possible, and then I move on.
I'm pretty good at it. But then, I've had a lot of practice.
Some parts are easy, once you get the knack. Face it, Beverly Hills is in many ways a small town. If you're smart you learn who's who pretty fast, even among the old-timers, and you don't hesitate to use that knowledge.
I like to think that I'm smart.
So when I turned onto the twisting drive that led to the Duncan home, I had it all planned out. First off. I'd express my condolences. And when we had dispensed with the preliminaries, I'd go for instant intimacy. I'd mention that Howard Duncan had been one of my favorite writers since I was thirteen. I'd tie it all up nice and pretty by saying that his stories could still keep me from a good night's sleep, and that it was just too damn bad we wouldn't be seeing any more of them.
That wasn't the usual disingenuous ice-breaker I'd be forced to invent. Not at all. Years ago, I'd bought a couple of Duncan's short story collections at a Sunday swap meet that my folks attended with completely secular fervor. Howard Duncan's stories were more than spooky. His tales of the darker side of human — and inhuman — nature scared my thirteen-year-old self so badly that I immediately traded them to a buddy for a deck of cards that featured photos of Hollywood starlets in the buff. Either way, the swap didn't do me much good. Even Jayne Mansfield's tits cozied up to the ace of hearts couldn't rescue my mind from the pit to which Howard Duncan had delivered it.
I'd edit that last part from my monologue, of course. No need to be quite so gauche, I decided as I pulled to a stop at the end of the brick driveway. Hopefully, a few well-chosen words would get the ball rolling. Then I'd toss a little extended silence into the mix. It always amazes me how much people will tell you if you just manage to keep your mouth shut. No one knows how to handle silence anymore. Sometimes people talk themselves into a corner, and you barely have to say a word. You get it all handed to you on a silver platter.
Other times, it's tougher. Things don't always go according to plan.
That's when you have to improvise.
The front door was a massive oak thing— no doubt one of a kind, custom-made. A gallery of expressive faces with the look of leprechauns and elves had been carved into the wood, creating a kind of mural.
That was all very impressive, but it was a much less dramatic sight that caught and ultimately held my attention. The drape covering the narrow window to the left of the door was pulled a half an inch to one side, just enough so someone could get a look at me.
I let them look. I picked some lint off of my slacks and made a show of pulling on my jacket. I took my time climbing the brick stairway. Make 'em wait and they'll talk even faster. That's the way it usually works.
The doorbell was set in the mouth of a brass dragon that snaked up the wall to the right of the door. I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and pressed the bell as I exhaled.
Regal chimes sounded. Faux Big Ben.
The door swung open. The lady who stood in the doorway was pushing ninety, at least. Overpowering sachet, blue hair, a flower-print dress that wasn't retro-sixties, it was authentic sixties... Add it all up, and it didn't take a detective to figure out that this woman was Howard Duncan's widow.
Her little claw of a hand was on my wrist just that fast. "I was expecting a man in uniform," she whispered.
"Sorry to disappoint," I said. Her grip was surprisingly strong, and she drew me into the foyer.
"Well, of course I was wrong." She laughed— a thin and delicate laugh that was completely captivating. "It's as plain as plain can be, if I'd taken the time to think it through. Only a patrolman would wear a uniform. Detectives wear nice clothes, like this fine jacket you have on. Italian, isn't it?"
I nodded.
"I know my clothes," she said. "That I do. I always selected my Howard's wardrobe. I packed his bags when he went on his book tours. I told him just what to wear to make a good impression at those silly conventions he so enjoyed. Left to his own devices, the man would have dressed like... like — " she made a great effort of selecting the correct description " — well, I could tell you stories about a certain science fiction author that would send you screaming into the night."
I traded a smile for the nod, and that seemed to please her. "My name is Jennifer Duncan," she said. "I'm Howard's widow..."
A stunning revelation, I thought.
"... and what shall I call you?" she asked.
"Raymond," I said.
She laughed. "Now, is that Detective Raymond, or simply Ray?"
I managed a polite chuckle, just the way Jack Webb would have done it. "Ray will be fine, ma'am."
"And you may call me Jenny." Her self-assured little grin told me that she deemed this a great privilege. "Well," she continued, "I never imagined that you would arrive so quickly."
"I don't waste time," I said. "But I don't want to step on any toes, either. I mean, the two of us having a private conversation might be seen as, well, slightly unseemly. Is your daughter at home?"
A look of pure horror crossed Mrs. Duncan's face. "Oh, Debbie is the last person you want to talk to. Not until you hear the entire tale from me. After all, it's Debbie that I called you about."
I was dying to ask a question, but restraint won out; I arched my eyebrows instead.
"Well..." The old lady looked a bit confused herself. "Don't you see... Debbie is the one who did it."
This was very interesting. I scratched my chin, wrinkled my brow.
"I explained all of this to your supervisor, on the phone," Jenny said, somewhat exasperated. Still, there was no fear in her voice, only righteous anger. "My daughter murdered my husband."
We were in the living room, and Jenny Duncan was into the sherry.
"It's a shame that you're on duty," she said. "Howard only bought the very best."
Judging from the decor of the living room, I didn't know if that was the conclusion I'd reach. The only thing that I knew for certain was that Howard Duncan had bought an awful lot, aesthetic appraisals aside. One of the walls was lined with bookcases— hardcovers only— each volume wearing a plastic jacket of the kind used by libraries. The other three walls were crammed with paintings, widely ranging in style. Some were good and some were perfectly atrocious, but the design of each work was identical— figures (in most cases ghouls and goblins and other creepy-crawlies that go bump in the night) dominated the lower half of each painting while the upper half was pretty much neutral, taken up by subtle renderings of sky, clouds, or stars.
Each painting had been commissioned as a book or magazine cover, that much was obvious. Right off I spotted the covers of the two collections I'd bought at that long-ago swap meet, and one of them sent a shiver up my spine. In it, the skeletal hand of a murdered cuckold was thrusting through a stone floor while his horrified widow and her lover watched from the basement staircase. Even though I'd only read the story once, and long ago, I remembered it vividly as one of Duncan's signature revenge pieces, the kind they were forever adapting on the old Boris Karloff Thriller television series. It was a sub-genre of horror which Duncan had pretty much single-handedly patented in the days of the pulps, a style still imitated today in short stories, comics, movies, and television. While the painting was awful — no
t only was it badly rendered, it gave away the ending of the story — it held my attention.
A bit too thoroughly. My hostess informed me of this with a gentle sigh. "I wish you'd come a week ago, when I first contacted your department. I wish the chief of detectives had taken me seriously from the start. But he took some convincing. Still, I'm glad to see that our little chat this morning finally convinced him that the matter warranted investigation."
"Things don't always happen as fast as they should."
"That's what worries me. Precious time has been wasted. Debbie already called in a cleaning service, you know. They cleaned and cleaned and cleaned. Especially in the kitchen." Jenny Duncan sipped sherry. "I'm afraid you won't find any bloodstains at all."
"Oh, you never know," I said, my gaze wandering. "It's amazing what we can find these days."
"Well, hadn't you better get started?" She was obviously impatient. "Not that I would attempt to tell you your business. But don't you need to sweep for fingerprints, and photograph the crime stage, and... well, don't you have just oodles of things to do?"
I nodded, keeping a smile on my face. That's another one of my discoveries — you can get away with saying almost anything if you're smiling. "Jenny," I said, "you should have been a detective."
She actually blushed under all that makeup. "I'm sorry if—"
"No." I cut her off. "I'm the one who's sorry. My equipment is out in the car. But let's save that for later. First off, let's have a little chat, just the two of us, before your daughter returns. I want you to tell me what happened to your husband, and I don't want you to leave anything out. Sometimes the smallest details are the most important."
She set the sherry aside and rose to her full five feet. "Don't worry about that, Detective Raymond." She sighed expansively. "Excuse me... Don't worry about that, Ray. You see, I do have a very good memory. And I witnessed the entire horrid exercise." She paused for dramatic effect. "I witnessed much more than a murder, Ray."
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