by P. J. Conn
"Jealousy has been a reason for murder, but there have to be so many local women who'd be jealous, one of them could have gotten to him first."
"True. Do you suppose Detective Lynch has learned anything?"
"If so, he hasn't shared it. Let's change the subject again."
"Fine let's talk about the wedding. I bought a gorgeous gown and will ship it to Seattle in plenty of time for the wedding. It's exactly what I wanted, but I'll not give you a verbal preview so it will be a surprise when I wear it. My mother's feelings will be hurt that I'm not choosing to wear hers, but it's our wedding, after all, and the choice should be mine."
"That's the spirit!" He knew she'd anguished over the issue and was relieved she'd found a way to solve it to her own advantage. "You're going to make a wonderful wife, Mary Margaret."
She laughed with him. "Let's hope so."
Chapter 4
Late Saturday night, Joe lay in bed with his head propped on his hands. He didn't discuss all his cases with Mary Margaret, but whenever he did, she frequently saw an angle he'd missed. The possibility of plane travel made Veronica a suspect even if she lived in New York City. He wouldn't be able to get passenger lists, but Jacob Lynch could, if he thought of it.
They hadn't spoken at the funeral, which was a relief, but he still wondered what the detective was up to. None of the people he'd questioned about Matteo had mentioned the police had been there earlier. He supposed Lynch must have a way to tackle a murder investigation, but it remained a mystery.
* * *
Sunday, Joe thoroughly enjoyed the lazy morning. He slept in, showered, shaved, and made a fine breakfast with scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. The big Sunday crossword puzzle in the LA Times offered more of a challenge than those printed daily, and he took pride in being able to complete it in less than an hour.
He gave the residents of Matteo's apartment building time to arrive home after church, and then drove to Almont Drive. He climbed the stairs to the third floor, and went to apartment nine. Rita Smith was the name on the mailbox downstairs. A large woman in a flowing blue dressing gown answered his knock. Her gray hair was in tight curls, and her make-up as perfect as a baby doll's. Joe introduced himself.
Rita raised her hands to her rouged cheeks. "I heard Matteo was murdered in his own place! Lord, have mercy! What's become of the world?"
"I ask myself that same question at least once a day, Miss Smith," Joe responded.
"Please call me Rita. Would you like to come in? I've been reviewing the script I'll need for tomorrow and could use a break. I work in radio, commercials mostly, although I occasionally have a small part on a soap opera. Bet you don't listen to those."
Joe followed her into the living room, and found furniture designed for someone of her ample size. "I don't, but a lot of people enjoy the entertainment during the day."
"Well, aren't you the agreeable sort." She picked up the script from the sofa and gestured for him to sit.
Joe chose a roomy wingback chair to face her, and offered the photo for her opinion.
"This looks like Veronica, Matteo's ex-wife. I met her a time or two, and she has a lovely fur coat. I don't wear furs myself, you understand, so I won't be mistaken for a grizzly bear!"
She had a charming giggle, and he laughed with her. "Do you recall the last time you saw Veronica?"
"In the late spring maybe. When did you take this photo?"
"Last Wednesday."
"When Matteo died? This can't be Veronica then. If she'd been here when he died, the whole building would have shook with her screams. She just adored him, and I was embarrassed for her. She'd look up at him with such a worshipful gaze, and he'd respond with a distracted smile. Have you seen couples like that?"
"Indeed I have, although it's often the man who adores a woman who has little time for him. You have my card. Please give me a call if you remember anything about the other women Matteo saw."
"He was one gorgeous man. I thought he ought to be in movies, but he told me music was his life. What a terrible waste." She sprang from the sofa with surprising agility and walked him to the door. "Good luck with your investigation."
He thanked her, and went on to apartment ten, where Bob and Meg Wood were just leaving for the library, each with an armful of books. They took a quick glance at the photo, had no idea who the woman might be and went on their way.
Marc and Rhonda Barker lived in apartment eleven. "We own the cleaners on Burton Way, and Sunday is our only day off," Rhonda disclosed in a whisper. "My husband is taking a nap on the sofa, and I don't want to wake him." She stepped out into the hallway to get a better look at the photo.
"We leave early in the morning and aren't home until late, so we don't see much of our neighbors. I don't recognize her. Is she involved in Matteo's murder?"
"She may have witnessed the crime," Joe replied, not wanting to frighten her.
"I hope you find her then. Wait a minute, let me give you a coupon for free dry cleaning."
"Thank you so much." He'd pass it along to Mary Margaret.
Chuck Meyer came to the door of number twelve carrying the Sunday crossword puzzle, which gave Joe an opening for several minutes of easy conversation. He then broached why he'd come, and showed Chuck the photo.
"Sorry, she doesn't look familiar. I often go to the LA Philharmonic concerts with friends, and we all thought Matteo was a musical genius. He could coax such soulful sounds from his cello, the whole audience would be in tears. We're unlikely to ever hear his equal."
"What about Sean Dermont? He has to be good, or he wouldn't be in the orchestra."
"The second chair cello? I've no idea. Matteo always played the solos."
"I'm sorry I missed hearing him."
"His recordings capture his superb talent. I'd invite you in to hear some of his music, but I have plans for the afternoon."
"That's quite all right. I'll pick up an album." Joe said good-bye, and headed to the apartment house on La Peer Drive.
* * *
Suzanne Ritter, the fashion designer, proved to be a beautiful dark-eyed woman, who wore her burgundy hair in a stylish short bob. No one was born with that startling shade, but it looked good on her. In an emerald green striped jacket and slim black skirt, she presented the height of fall fashion, but she was in her stocking feet. He thought such an elegant woman probably wore silk hose rather than nylons.
She leaned against her front door as they talked. When she brushed her thick bangs off her forehead, they fell into place in a wave that dipped over her right eye, Veronica Lake style.
"I knew Matteo, of course, I did. If an attractive woman lived within a mile from here, he knew her. He was a gentleman and never spoke a word about other women, however." She crossed her arms under her ample bosom. "I will tell you something no one else might mention. He loved drinking milkshakes at the close of a romantic evening. I'd never associated milkshakes with making love, but I always will now. I'll miss him."
She held the photo by the corner. "I recognize Matteo's other apartment building, but not the woman. No one dresses like that here, unless she was trying out a Halloween costume."
The coming Friday would be Halloween, so he thought it a reasonable guess. "Do you know Veronica da Milano? She stays in Matteo's apartment here when she's in town."
"I do, poor thing," Rita murmured under her breath. "It's a familiar story. They married very young, and he quickly outgrew her. She didn't understand why he'd left her and never will. She belongs with some decent fellow who'll welcome a houseful of kids. Have I told you too much?"
"No, I appreciate everything you'd care to share." It didn't sound as though she had been jealous of Matteo's casual affairs although she had been one herself. "Do you own a fur coat?"
"No. I've never been fond of dead animal pelts. It's too reminiscent of cavemen for me." She swept him with a slow appreciative glance, and smiled. "Would you care to come in for a drink?"
It was a softly-spoken invitation, n
ot a desperate plea, but he couldn't accept. She had a viper's beauty, and he couldn't help but stare, but he didn't dare get any closer. "Thank you, but I have a wonderful fiancée, and won't stray into an attractive woman's apartment. Tell me one thing more. Why do women wear such uncomfortable shoes they can't wait to take them off, and men expect their shoes to be comfortable all day long?"
She had a deep, throaty laugh. "Women wear high heels because men like the way they make our legs look. Some men adore women's feet, but I've never heard of a woman who loved a man's hairy toes."
"Neither have I." He handed her his card. "Don't hesitate to call me if you think of anything related to Matteo's murder."
"I will," she promised as she closed her door, but she didn't sound sincere.
Joe needed a moment to collect himself before he knocked on Thomas Roach's door. The car salesman wore a sport coat and tie, and appeared ready to leave for work.
He spoke before Joe could. "Tell me you're in the market for a new car, and I'll meet you at Felix Chevrolet. I'm only one car away from my month's quota, and I'll make you a great deal."
"Thank you, but not today." He handed him his business card and the photograph. "Do you recognize this woman?"
"Can't say that I do, but Matteo had women friends with fur coats. I was sorry to learn he'd died. I'd hoped one of his girlfriends would knock on the wrong door and want to know me. Guess I missed my chance."
"Did you know his ex-wife?" Joe asked.
"Didn't even know he had one. We weren't close."
Joe could easily understand why. "If you think of anything more that might be helpful, please give me a call."
Thomas slapped a business card in his hand. "Sure will, and when you're ready for a new car, come and see me."
"I'll do that, Mr. Roach." He hurried down the stairs rather than walk with him, but he'd keep his card on the off chance he could ever afford to buy a new Chevrolet.
* * *
On Sundays, Joe liked to spend a quiet afternoon with Mary Margaret visiting someplace new, taking a walk in a park, or staying at the cottage to read and listen to music. When he arrived at Chrysanthemum Court, she drew him in and showed him an album of phonograph records. Johann Sebastian Bach distinctive signature decorated the front along with Matteo da Milano's name.
"I doubted you'd have time to buy any of Matteo's recordings and a friend at the hospital loaned me these."
Joe knew her friends, and thought it odd she didn't offer a name. "Which friend?" When she hesitated to answer, he knew right away. "Gabriel Webb?" The doctor was tall, blond, and handsome, and the thought gave his heart a jealous twinge.
"Yes, now that you mention it, but I didn't want you to worry. He's not my type, and you are." She reached up to kiss him. "From what it says in the album, Bach's six cello suites are a challenge, and Matteo played them beautifully. Let's listen to the first one."
She removed the first record from the album sleeve, placed it on her phonograph turntable, turned it on, and lowered the needle. Joe caught her hand to pull her down beside him on the sofa. He placed a playful kiss in her ear.
"Joe! Let's just concentrate on the music for now."
"How's ten minutes, we don't want to overdo." He closed his eyes to concentrate on the ebb and flow of the superb music. Matteo produced the depth of sound for which he was well known, and when Mary Margaret poked him in the ribs with her elbow, he checked his watch and found half an hour had gone by.
"I'm sorry, but classical music tends to put me to sleep. I can appreciate Matteo's talent from what I did hear though. Let's go out and soak up some sunshine and listen to more later."
"Only if you're good," she teased, and they left for the nearby park for a leisurely stroll.
* * *
Monday morning, Joe's first call came from his agent, Archibald Sutton. "You're all anyone is talking about after they see the Arizona Sunrise previews. Casting agents are drooling over you!"
"I don't say a word and haven't more than a few seconds in the preview. Are they desperate for talent?"
"Yes, for new talent at least. You're set for the Roy Rogers film at the first of the year, and we might be able to work in another job before then."
"I'm getting married, and can't devote any time to becoming a movie star until after Roy's Western."
"All right, I'll just tell anyone who calls that you're booked until after Roy's next Western wraps. It will make them all the more eager to hire you, so we'll be able to ask for more money."
"Hold that thought." Joe had hired an agent and read for a part only to track a young woman who had died all too soon. He had solved the case, but he'd never thought anyone would want to see him more than once.
His next call was from Hal Marten. "I have another case of possible fraud, do you have time to look into it?"
"Sure do. Does it involve another suspicious theft?"
"No, this case is far more unusual. Our clients, Doug Larsen and his wife, Eleanor, bought a Victorian house. They plan to live on the second floor and run an antique shop on the first. The problem is, everyone they hire gets injured, and he's making repeated claims for their injuries on their California West homeowners insurance. The owner claims the house is haunted, which he considers charming, but enough is enough."
"What sort of injuries are we talking about?"
"The painter fell off his ladder and broke his arm. The plumber slipped on the stairs and threw out his back. The electrician apparently fell over his own equipment and sprained his ankle so badly he won't be able to work for several weeks. I want you to go look at the house. The owner could be making claims and splitting the money with the men he's hired. Tell me what you think of him."
"What if there really is a ghost?"
"Hire a priest to do an exorcism and get rid of it."
"Sure, I'll get right on it." Joe still had his identification card for California West. He'd made a note of the address, drove by the house, and parked across the street. It was a magnificent Queen Ann Victorian covered with fish scale shingles, with a two story circular turret, gingerbread decorative trim along the eaves, tall narrow windows, and a porch that curved around the front. A man stood painting the porch railing's intricate trim white, and he looked up as Joe approached.
"Wonderful house!" Joe called to him. It was a subtle rose hue, not a garish pink, but while the upper story was freshly painted, the scaffolding was still up, and only a few swipes of color had been taken on the ground floor.
"Indeed it is. I'm Doug Larsen, the owner. We'll have an antique store here soon, but we're not open today." Doug was as chubby as Santa Claus, with a fringe of white hair circling his head. He looked to be in his sixties at least, but his fair complexion held only a few lines and wrinkles.
Joe walked up the stairs to the porch, introduced himself, and showed his ID card. "California West wants you and your wife to have a lovely home, but the frequent accidents here are becoming alarming."
"If you're alarmed, imagine how we feel." He laid his brush on the can of paint, and wiped his hands on a rag. "I hate to blame a ghost for the injuries, but apparently Ida doesn't want workers here hammering, clanging on pipes, and doing all manner of noisy jobs, but we can't endanger others to suit her whims."
"Ida is her name?"
"Yes, she lived here more than fifty years, and we bought the house from her heirs, but she just refuses to go."
Joe observed the man closely, he appeared to be stating fact, as though ghosts were a normal part of any conversation. "Have you seen her ghost?"
"Not clearly, she's more of a shadowy mist, as you might expect, but we often smell her perfume even when we don't see her, so we know she's been around."
Joe glanced down the railing to have a moment to think. "You're doing a fine job. Ida doesn't mind if you're out here painting?"
"No, she knows us. You want to come in and see her picture?"
"Thank you, I'd like that." He followed Doug through the wide front door and
found the interior already painted a cooling light green. "The painter didn't have any problems until he moved to the exterior?"
"Oh, he had problems aplenty, but they were silly things like his stepladder being moved, or cans of paint hidden in the closets. It wasn't until he put up scaffolding that the troubles began." He crossed to the desk in the parlor and pulled open a little drawer to remove the photo. "You can see she was a beauty in her day."
Joe could appreciate her looks, but her gaze held a serious gleam, as though she saw trouble coming. "Was she married?"
"Yes, but her husband, Walter, was on the Lusitania in 1915 when it was attacked by a German submarine and sunk. He wasn't among the survivors. She never remarried, and may have mourned her husband's loss the remainder of her life."
"You mentioned heirs?"
"Yes, a niece and two nephews, her brother's children. They were happy to sell Ida's home and took our first offer. Not many people want to take on a project this big, but it's perfect for our antiques business, and we had to have it."
"Do you have anything else of Ida's?"
"There was a trunk of clothes in the attic, but they were so old they turned to dust when touched. She had albums of family photographs, but her niece took those. What are you thinking, that there's something here she wants?"
"Frankly, I have no idea what to think." He did understand Doug believed what he said, however. "Have you considered having a priest do an exorcism?"
Doug shrugged. "I think that's just for live people, but I'd hate to chase Ida away. I don't want anyone else hurt, of course. What do you think I ought to do?"
"Have you tried speaking to Ida and suggesting she move on?"
"My wife chats with her. Let me call her." He went to the bottom of the stairs. "Eleanor, will you come down for a moment, please?"
Joe expected a round little woman who could play Mrs. Claus, but Eleanor was taller than her husband, slender, and quite pretty. She had a measuring tape hung around her neck. "The curtains will never be finished if you keep interrupting me. I'm sorry, I didn't realize we had a guest."