by Denise Dietz
“Fishes, Bingo.” I had a sudden thought. My phone hadn’t worked after Patty’s frantic call, the one about the prowler. Ben had blamed it on the storm. But somebody could have cut the line and arrived the next morning while I was in the hospital. She could have fixed my phone and, at the same time, bugged it.
During my Kim O’Connor visit, both Bingo and Ben had left messages on my answering machine. Which meant what?
Which meant that Ben had recorded a new leave your name and number and—wait a sec!
“How did Charlie know where I lived, Bingo?”
“I told you, Ingrid, they roughed me up.”
“So you mentioned your rich wife?”
“I didn’t exactly say rich.”
“What exactly did you say?”
“Famous.”
“They told you about Charlie Bronson and you said you’d get the money from me. Then you gave them my name and address, right? Answer me, you bastard!”
“Ingrid, they threatened to break my arm.”
“Better yours than mine. How can I be rich and famous if I can’t write music?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. I’ll bet.”
“If that’s a joke, it’s not funny.”
“What’s not funny is your hasty exit from the restaurant. Charlie couldn’t follow you so she kept bugging me.”
“Please loan me the money, Ingrid. Please?”
“I don’t have it, I swear.”
“Then I’m dead.”
“Turn yourself over to the police, Bingo. It’s your only chance.”
“Rose Stewart wants me to trust cops?”
“Rose Stewart is dead! She died a long time ago!”
Nervously, I glanced up and down the rows of empty tables. I had that eerie feeling again, the same feeling I had felt inside my family room, that eye of the hurricane feeling.
Bingo watched me survey the room. “What are you looking for, Ing?”
“A woman with a smudged wineglass,” I replied, trying for sarcasm. But my voice must have sounded scared stiff.
“Don’t worry. Charlie’s probably halfway to Pikes Peak by now. It’s a long drive and—”
“Holy shit, Bingo! I can’t believe you’re so stupid. Even if Charlie had studied her FBI manuals very carefully, bugged my phone, then honed in on our conversation, she’d simply follow me. She doesn’t know the area and she’d never waste her time trying to figure out some damn map.” I felt sweaty centipedes creep down my spine as I pictured an ancient Volkswagen capturing what should have been my parking space. “How long has that old lady been here? The one at the table next to ours. The one who’s supposedly snoozing.”
“I don’t know. Before you arrived, I had my head buried in a book.”
“Reading?”
“No. Thinking.”
“About what? Sweaty undershirts?”
I sneaked a peak at the old lady again. Her gray hair could be a wig. Her poochy stomach could be padded. Her wrinkled face could be the result of clever cosmetic application.
Cosmetics! The old lady didn’t wear purple lipstick.
But the librarian did.
“Oh dear,” I said inadequately. “I think we’re about to be button-holed, Bingo. If your hit woman has been eavesdropping on our conversation, she now knows that I don’t have any money and you’re still broke.”
“For Christ’s sake, Ingrid, Charlie’s—”
“Standing over there by the desk. No! Don’t look!”
“Don’t panic,” Bingo said, his face as white as a sheet, his whole body shaking like an aspen. “The one thing we must not do is run around like some friggin’ chicken with its head cut off.”
“Two friggin’ chickens. If she kills you, she’ll have to kill me. Wait a sec! The old lady. We can write her a message and jostle her awake. She can pass the message on to a real librarian, who can call the police. The precinct’s just a few blocks from here.” My throat hurt from keeping my voice low.
“Police? No way!”
“I want a cop, Bingo, and you might consider trading information for protection. Unless, of course, you prefer death.”
“Cold-hearted bitch,” he whispered.
“Self-serving bastard!” I shouted. “Okay, you win. I’ll give you the money.”
Bingo almost fell off his chair.
The old lady blinked open her eyes. “Hush, my dear,” she warned. “You’re inside a liberry.”
I yanked open my purse, retrieved my checkbook and pen, hunched over, and scribbled madly. “The man sitting next to me wants lots of money,” I told the old lady, “or he won’t give me a divorce. I’ll have to sell my house. Just look at how much he wants.” Rising, I stomped toward her and thrust the checkbook directly under her nose. “Can you believe that?”
“It’s hard to believe,” she said.
“Well, I’m not kidding.” I slammed the checkbook against her table. “Would you care to look again, ma’am? Did you see the amount?”
“I saw,” she said. “Lordy, it’s way past suppertime. I’ve got to get home. My grandchildren worry. I tell them not to worry. What could happen inside a liberry? They always say you could fall and break a hip, Granny. I say I’m old, but I’m not senile. Worrywarts, the whole lot of ’em.” Getting to her feet, she clutched her satchel. “That’s too much money for a divorce, my dear, unless you’re Joan Collins or Roseanne whatever-her-name-is-now.”
After watching the old lady amble toward the stairs, I slid my butt atop my chair, ripped out the check, and handed it to Bingo. “This is postdated, you rat-bastard. Dwight Cooper once offered to buy my house. It’s prime real estate, and he knows how destitute I’ve been. But you’ve got to give me a chance to contact Dwight and—”
“A postdated check won’t fly.” Bingo tore the check in half, then fourths. “I need cash, Ingrid. No cash, no divorce.”
The librarian was inching forward, listening hard. Her purple lipstick glistened. Stall, I thought. Give Granny a chance to do her thing.
“Bingo, what the hell do you want from me?”
“I want cash, Ing, ten thousand dollars. Borrow it. Patty Jamestone has plenty, and soon she’ll have more.”
“I imagine Patty’s assets are frozen until they find Wylie’s murderer.”
“Alice Cooper’s assets aren’t frozen,” he said.
“Why on earth would Alice lend me ten thousand dollars?”
“Not lend, Ingrid, pay. Just ask her where she happened to be the afternoon Wylie Jamestone was killed.”
“She was at the Dew Drop Inn.”
“She was visiting Wylie.”
“You saw her?”
“I saw her car.”
“How would you know her car? Since you’ve been gone, she’s changed cars.”
“Alice never changes. She used to plaster her cars with paraphernalia, and she still does. For instance, Alice sells Mary Kay cosmetics, right?”
“Everybody sells Mary Kay.”
“Everybody does not have a handicap sticker. Everybody does not have a flag-waving Fourth of July Garfield suctioned to their window. Everybody does not have a friggin’ slinky toy, blinking its red eyes when you step on the brakes. And everybody does not have a bumper sticker that reads ‘Tipper Gore For Vice.’”
I almost laughed. Under different circumstances, I would have. Alice’s bumper sticker had read TIPPER GORE FOR VICE PRESIDENT. Until some joker ripped off the President.
“What were you doing outside Wylie’s house?” Before Bingo could reply, I whispered, “Never mind. Tell me later. I think your hit woman is planning to make her move.”
“What makes you think—?”
“Don’t argue. I’ve been snatching glimpses. I have a sneaky suspicion Charlie Bronson might get a bang out of killing people, even if they owed ten dollars rather than ten thousand.”
I took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Okay, Bingo, for once in your life try and act natural. Stand up, push your
chair back, then run like hell.”
Chapter Nineteen
According to my TV’s digital clock, it was 7:20 p.m.
“You’ve lost me, babe,” said Ben. “Take a deep breath and start again.”
My significant lover’s dark eyes were filled with compassion. However, he had sensed that physical contact would be inappropriate and he was right. I felt like a tiny Chihuahua. If Ben stroked me, I’d shiver. If he hugged me, I’d shatter into a million pieces. God, I felt so fragile.
The police had offered to drive me home, but Mickey—Spillane, not Mouse—had insisted she felt fine and would drive home by her lonesome, even though her Jeep swerved a few times along the way. Bumps, I told myself. Potholes. The tires needed air. I needed air.
Now Ben and I stood in the middle of my family room, at arm’s length, facing each other. A bottle of Courvoisier perched on top of the spinet, next to my ceramic rose. Aware that yet another thunderstorm drew nigh, Hitchcock had wedged himself between Doris Day and the fireplace grate.
“Start with Bingo’s phone call,” Ben said.
Clutching my snifter, I began all over again. Soon my snifter was empty. Ben replenished it.
“The old lady’s name is Shirley,” I continued, “and she’s not senile, not by a long shot. Her relatives should be shot for even hinting that Granny might be in her dotage. She managed to evacuate the whole ‘liberry,’ starting with the children’s section. Shirley promised them bubble gum if they marched like little soldiers and zipped their mouths shut.”
“Unzip your mouth and swallow,” Ben said softly. “Your face looks bleached, almost as white as your sweatshirt.”
Instinctively obeying, I felt the cognac stain my cheeks pink and deliver a few tears to my aching eyeballs.
“Bingo insisted that Alice was blackmailable, Ben. Is that a word? Blackmailable?”
“Let’s assume it is.”
“So I asked Bingo what he was doing outside Wylie’s house. Before he could answer, Charlie Bronson lifted the hem of her skirt. I surmised that she was either planning to entertain us with a striptease, or she just might have a gun hidden beneath her undies. Bingo and I stood up, pushed our chairs in her direction, and ran like hell. I ran faster. Bingo has gained weight and his new boots aren’t broken in yet so they hurt his feet. Anyway, I raced down the stairs and practically fell into Lieutenant Miller’s arms.”
“A propitious landing.”
“Bingo and Charlie weren’t so lucky. They got met by cops. Charlie immediately professed innocence. I was so pissed off, I stepped forward and pulled her skirt down to her ankles. It had an elastic waistband and she wasn’t wearing a slip. She wasn’t wearing undies, either. The cops just watched, mesmerized. Sure enough, there was a small ga-gun tucked into her pan-pantyhose.”
Ben propelled me toward the couch, sat me down, and helped me lift the snifter to my lips. “Take it easy, babe,” he said. “I can’t tell whether you’re about to laugh or cry.”
“Neither. Sneeze. Never mind, my sneeze went away. One cop handcuffed Char…ah-chew.”
“God bless you.”
“Thanks. Rats! Almost forgot.” I stood, placed my snifter on the coffee table, raced over to the telephone table, and picked up the phone’s receiver. Cautiously, as if somebody had handed me a live rattlesnake, I began to unscrew its mouthpiece. Sensing Ben’s approach, I turned and thrust the receiver toward him.
“Clever,” he said. “Bingo’s hit woman planted an F.M. transmitter made in the form of a telephone microphone. She substituted this drop-in for the original microphone, and was drawing D.C. power from the phone company’s central batteries. I’d guess the range is about two hundred and fifty feet.”
“I knew somebody was watching the house. I felt it. By any chance did a repairman show up here last Tuesday morning, while I was in the hospital?”
“Not a repair man,” Ben said ruefully.
“She wore purple lipstick, right?”
Ben nodded. “She also wore jeans, thick-soled boots, a stocking cap and a heavy tool belt. She looked very authentic. She fiddled around outside, then tested the phone. Hitchcock went nuts. I had to lock him inside your bedroom. So Charlie probably did her thing while I was upstairs with Hitchcock. I’m sorry, Ingrid.”
“Why? You couldn’t have known. Even if you had mentioned a repair woman, I wouldn’t have suspected anything. Did you record a new answering machine message?”
“Yup.” Ben screwed the mouthpiece back on and hung up the receiver.
“No wonder Bingo sounded so abrasive. He heard a man’s voice and—”
“Speaking of Bingo, what did the police do with him?”
“They took him into custody. I think they plan to ship him back to Chicago and notify the FBI. Bingo gushed like a broken water faucet. His bookies are part of a mob, Mafia, whatever they call it nowadays. Prostitution, drugs, gambling, the whole enchilada. Bingo promised to confess everything and identify everybody, if he can join the government’s witness protection program. He has nothing to lose and he’s always hated his nickname.”
“Your divorce.”
“What?”
“Did you ask Bingo about signing the divorce papers?”
“Ben, that was the last thing on my mind.”
“What was the first thing on your mind? As if I didn’t know.”
“Long story,” I mumbled, returning to the couch and my Courvoisier.
“We have time.” Ben crossed the room and stood in front of me. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“I wanted to pay Alice a visit.”
“Not tonight, honey. Enough is enough. We’ll go tomorrow. The first thing on your mind was Wylie, right? Tell me how Bingo knew about Alice.”
“Lieutenant Miller was very nice for a cop. He gave me a few minutes alone with my ex-ex so I could say, ‘Goodbye, you rat-bastard, good luck.’
“Bingo was staying with an old friend, an ex-con named Jefferson Price. That’s how come Bingo had access to a car and phone. Jeff was into drugs, and he had recently lost his job. His former employer migrates to Arizona every winter and takes his watchdog along. Are you getting the picture, Ben?”
“No. Yes. The klutzy thief.”
“Correct. Jefferson and Bingo plotted the robbery together. Bingo didn’t know Wylie was staying there. The game plan was simple, even though it required two people. Bingo would back a small van up the driveway and they’d tote everything out through the garage. Police patrol that posh neighborhood at night, and people walk their dogs. Since it was Sunday afternoon, Jeff figured everyone would be watching football. But he didn’t figure Alice’s car would be parked in the driveway. He and Bingo couldn’t stick around; it would look too suspicious, especially if someone glanced out a window. So they drove away, scarfed down some Taco Bell, smoked a joint or three, and returned to the scene of the pending crime. Alice’s car was gone. Jeff entered through the front door. Bingo says it was wide open.”
“When did Price feed the cat?”
“Almost immediately. Jeff headed toward the kitchen, looking for munchies. Remember, he was stoned. Bingo says Sinead rubbed against Jeff’s legs. Jeff was sincerely touched. He reckoned it was puppy love, or pussy love. So he took off his gloves, pried open the milk carton, and couldn’t find the cat’s dish. Trailing Sinead, he entered the studio and sloshed milk into her bowl. He was higher than a kite, completely focused on the cat. When he finally discovered Wylie’s dead body, he stumbled into the kitchen, tossed the carton back inside the refrigerator, pocketed his gloves, and ran outside.”
“But first he tried to mop up the spill with my jacket, right?”
“Wrong. Kim O’Connor was responsible for the blood stains. Poor kid thought Wylie looked cold.”
“Does Miller know about Kim’s conscientiousness?”
“Of course. I told him.”
“Is the thief still incarcerated?”
“Nope. His poor old mother bailed him out. Jeff will be tried
for breaking and entering, but the cops couldn’t make a murder charge stick. That’s why they’ve been hounding you. I told Miller about The Four Leaf Clover Company and Junior and Patty, but I don’t think he took me seriously. Cops have never taken me seriously. I really need to visit Alice. She’s the missing link.”
“Tomorrow we’ll visit Alice together, just a social call. If anything looks or sounds suspicious, we’ll notify Miller. Okay?”
“Sure.” The potent brandy had propelled me into stage one, uninhibited. Every nerve end tingled with desire. I felt as if I might come should Ben’s finger brush my fly.
Standing, I wound my arms around his shoulders and snuggled my head beneath his craggy chin. My hair, no longer subdued, tickled his nose. He sneezed.
“God bless,” I said. “I wonder if we’re both coming down with colds.”
The back of his hand stroked my forehead, then my cheekbones. “You do feel feverish,” he said, unwinding my arms. “Isn’t it time you curled up with a comfy pillow?”
“I’d rather curl up with a comfy vet.”
“You need sleep.”
“You don’t want me?”
“I don’t want you getting sick. Do you think you can swallow some aspirin?”
“I’d rather swallow your tongue.”
“Bed, Ingrid. I’m not kidding.”
“What’s blue, has four legs, and goes baaah, baaah, baaah?”
“A blue elephant singing the Whiffenpoof song?”
“Wrong. A very sad, very lost lamb.”
“Aha! Now we’re mawkish. Do you feel like crying, Ingrid? That would be a normal reaction.”
“Is it my sweatshirt?”
“Is what your sweatshirt?”
“Bingo said my sweatshirt didn’t turn him on. He said I looked idiotic.”
“You look fine. Bingo’s the idiot.”
“Fine means straight teeth, Ben. Fine means a good personality. Fine means—”
“Beautiful.” He crushed me against his chest. Then his hand crept between my thighs. “I want you, Ingrid, I’ll always want you,” he murmured passionately, squeezing gently.