It was growing dark…
The sleek black Continental came whispering up to my back door and I knew my visitor wanted privacy.
I recognized her the minute she got out of the car — the wealthy burnished widow of Dennis Greene.
I opened the door. “Has something happened, Mrs. Greene?”
“Nothing. Aren’t you going to invite me in for a drink?”
“Of course. It all goes on the expense account anyway, Mrs. Greene.”
“You may call me Mona,” she said.
“Oh?”
She turned to face me squarely. “I was informed by a former client of yours, Joe — a feminine client — that you offer complete service for single women. Well, I’m single now, finally.”
I nearly choked. That was putting it rather crudely. I said, “That’s putting it rather crudely.”
She gave me one of these low-down, woman-to-man looks and said softly, “Not crudely, Joe. Just frankly.”
THE WAYWARD WIDOW
WILLIAM CAMPBELL GAULT
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Vein of Violence
Also Available
Copyright
Chapter One
THE GIRL was a friend of an attorney I knew, an attorney who had some unusual friends. This one was about thirty-five, though she looked younger. She looked all right; I would judge her as 34-24-34. Her eyes were a bright and piercing blue and though her hair was fraudulently blonde, it had been changed by an expert.
Her name was Carol Destry and she lived in San Valdesto. In case you’re not familiar with this area, San Valdesto is a town about ninety miles up the coast from Los Angeles. It was originally composed of millionaires and those who served them.
A middle class is starting to infiltrate the town now, but that has nothing to do with Carol Destry. She deserted the middle class when she left college and went to work (?) for Dennis Greene. Greene had been a wealthy producer-director and there are those who say he was a good one. I never liked his pictures, but what’s one man’s opinion?
Anyway, Greene was fifty-three when he hired Carol Destry and he was sixty-eight when he died, leaving an estate of two million — which means that she had been his so-called secretary for fifteen years and that he had been careful with his money.
There was an estranged wife in the background he had never got around to divorcing and some nephews and nieces who claimed to have been very close to him. Natch. Miss Destry then made her pitch. She filed suit in Superior Court to the effect that nobody, but nobody, had been as close to Dennis Greene as she had for fifteen loyal years.
She had been his secretary, his nurse, his housekeeper, his shield against the vulgar and inartistic world. Her complaint went on to state that he had promised she would never want for anything but him after his death.
What she wanted now was half a million. Because he hadn’t bequeathed her a dime.
She had been at his bedside when he died; his wife had been in Bermuda. His wife hadn’t lived with him for fourteen years. She had, as a matter of fact, signed some kind of separate property agreement twelve years back but the validity of that was now being questioned by her attorney.
Miss Destry was still staying at the Greene home, a simple California cottage of six bedrooms and seven baths on a summit overlooking the ocean. It was in a wooded area known as Halcyon Heights, a real estate development designed to assure its residents they would never be troubled with a proximity of Mexicans or Democrats.
I couldn’t understand why Miss Destry would need my services, but my lawyer friend assured me my trip would be paid for and perhaps the lady would find something that needed doing in my line.
So I drove up to San Valdesto.
• • •
She was in simple yellow linen, looking slim but adequate, when I steered the Plymouth up the climbing drive that led to the Greene home. She was sitting on the house-long, lawn-level front porch reading Time. She was wearing horn-rimmed glasses for this, and a thoughtful expression.
She rose and smiled at me as I walked over from the parking area. “Mr. Puma?” she asked.
“At your service,” I answered.
“I’m so glad to see you,” she said wearily. “It’s been a bad time, a frightful time.”
I said nothing. She nodded toward a wrought iron chair nearby and I sat down.
She sat down and looked out over the restricted hills. “They hate me here.”
“Who hates you, Miss Destry?” She waved. “All of them, all the snobs in this dull town. I’m an — intruder.”
“Maybe the citizens are more friendly outside of Halcyon Heights. Have you tried them?”
She stared at me thoughtfully. “I was told you were often sarcastic.”
“I’m not trying to be. A development like this is based on snobbery; it helps to keep the real estate values up. It protects your — or Mr. Greene’s — considerable investment. That isn’t necessarily wrong, is it?”
“I suppose not,” she admitted after a moment. “Would you like a drink?”
“I guess. It’s been a hot drive. Beer, if you have it.”
She rose and went toward the front door. Then she turned. “Oh, have you had lunch?” I shook my head.
“We can eat in back,” she said. “Pool-side. It’s too nice a day to eat indoors.” She went through the doorway.
No matter how long some people hang around the money, they can’t get over vulgarisms like “pool-side.” I pictured her without the yellow linen dress on, an adolescent habit of mine. She had seemed friendly. I wrenched my mind from that and tried to look professional. But behind my bland, professional look I was wondering what good a woman like that would do a sixty-eight-year-old man. It was a waste, a shameful waste.
Of course, he had been fifty-three when he met her and there are some amazingly virile men of fifty-three.
She brought a glass and bottle of Einlicher with her when she returned. She also brought something that looked like a Tom Collins for herself.
We settled down again and she nodded toward the window behind her. “What do you think of that?”
I looked and saw a shattered pane in the leaded, diamopd-paned window. I said, “It looks like a hole.”
“Made with a rock,” she said. “A big rock, about eleven-thirty last night, while I was sitting not ten feet from the window.”
“Kids?” I suggested.
“I doubt it. And it wasn’t thrown from the road. The road’s too far away. It was thrown by someone standing on my — on this property.”
“A kid with a real good arm could make it from the road,” I said. “Was it an isolated incident, or has something like this happened before?”
“It wasn’t — I mean nothing this definite has happened before. But there have been prowlers. The servants left after Mr. Greene died and I was alone until this morning, when I hired a housekeeper. I was frightened.”
“I see.” I sipped my beer. “Uh, how does it happen that you’re still here? Is the house in your name?”
She looked at me steadily and suspiciously. “Mr. Greene’s attorney wants me to stay here until the estate is settled and the house disposed of. Why did you ask that?”
“I need you as a bodyguard,” she said. “For protection.”
“You could buy that cheaper. I’m rather expensive for guard work.”
“I was aware of your rates. As a matter of fact it wasn’t only Mr. Darbo who recommended you. Franklyn Jeswald also thought you were the ideal man for the job.”
Jeswald was an assistant D.A. in Los Angeles and I had done the only divorce job I’d ever handled for him. And I’d done that only because he was a nice guy and his wife a bitch. She was also a whore, but I’ve got nothing against them.
“What are you thinking about, if it’s not personal?” Carol Destry asked.
“Frank Jeswald’s wife.” She smiled. “Some girl. I understand she’s now selling what she used to give away.”
“I didn’t hear that.” I sipped my beer and looked at Miss Destry. “A good-looking woman can always make out, can’t she?”
Her chin lifted. “A good looking, smart woman can. Were you being personal, Mr. Puma?”
“Not consciously. I will be, for a moment. Do you think you really have a case against the Greene estate?”
She nodded. I asked, “Is Jack Darbo your attorney?”
“He’s going to be. He’s taking over. The one who originally started the suit is a little stuffy, a local man.”
I smiled. “Is ‘stuffy’ the proper word? Did you maybe mean ‘ethical’?”
She looked at me frowningly. “Mr. Puma, you’re here as a prospective employee, not as a friend. I will not tolerate insolence from an employee.”
“I’m sorry. As soon as I finish this beer, I’ll leave. I am what I am, Miss Destry, and I don’t intend to change my character for day wages.”
Her frown deepened, but she said, “Aren’t you going to wait for lunch? I asked the housekeeper to set two places.”
“All right.” I grinned down at her. “Why don’t we get along? We’re both middle-class.”
“I’m not middle-class,” she said. “My father was a wealthy man.”
“No, he wasn’t. He was a clubman and he lived well. He was a charming and knowing man, but he was never actually wealthy.”
She stared at me.
“I didn’t come up here blind and deaf,” I explained. “I like to get the background of any case I go into. And I like to get the facts from my client when I do accept a job. I’ve a feeling you haven’t been honest with me.” I nodded toward the broken window. “Was that really done with a rock?”
She continued to stare. Finally she nodded, but it seemed like a lying nod to me, the stubborn lie of a child.
“You could be frightened,” I said, “but not of anyone who only throws rocks.”
She licked her lower lip. “How bright of you! Stay for lunch, anyway. It’s cheaper than buying one.”
“You hit me where I live,” I answered, and sat down again. “Is there another bottle of that Einlicher around?”
She brought me one and then it was time for lunch. It was a fine lunch. While we ate we talked, and I tried to learn exactly why she had sent for me.
I didn’t learn anything. She had lived by her wits, her charm and her body too long to be vulnerable to the clumsy probings of Joe Puma. We were drinking iced coffee when Jack Darbo came out from the house and over to where we sat.
He was a man of about forty, tall and dark, a solemn man and an able attorney. He smiled at both of us and asked, “Come to terms?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I can’t seem to get the picture.” He sat down on an aluminum chaise longue near us. “I was in town to see Winters, so I thought I’d drop over.” He looked at Miss Destry. “I have a feeling he considers our claim almost reasonable.”
“Is Winters the executor?” I asked. He nodded at me and continued to look at Carol Destry. “Has anything happened since you phoned about the window?
She shook her head. He looked at me. “You said something about not getting the picture. What did that mean, Joe?”
“I can’t understand a client sending all the way to Los Angeles and paying a hundred dollars a day for work she could probably get done locally for thirty dollars a day.”
He smiled gravely. “We didn’t set your rates. Would you feel better about it if we only paid you thirty dollars a day?” I didn’t answer.
“Don’t take the job, Joe,” he said mildly, “if you feel there’s anything doubtful about it.”
“If I followed that philosophy,” I told him, “I’d starve to death. Consider me hired.”
Darbo left in a few minutes and I poured myself more iced coffee. I had brought clothes, expecting to stay in a motel overnight if the job had required more than a few hours, so there was nothing for me to do now but stay close to Carol Destry.
It was phony as hell to me, but I couldn’t figure why else she had sent for me. If she was looking for a patsy, it might figure I would make a good one, but that didn’t make sense to me.
What then? Why then?
“You’re brooding again,” she said.
“I was quietly admiring the scenery,” I lied. “Darbo seems to think you have a case, huh?”
“Mmmm-hmmm. Don’t you?”
“I’ve no idea. I’m not a lawyer.” She stared at me for seconds and then said stiffly, “I usually swim and sun-bathe this time of day. You may wait here. Or if you’ve brought swimming trunks, you may use the pool. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
“I’ll just sit,” I said. “I didn’t bring any swim trunks.” As it happened, I didn’t just sit. Two bottles of Einlicher and three glasses of iced coffee prevented that. A few minutes after she went into the house, I followed, expecting to ask the housekeeper where the bathroom was.
I came in through the doorway to the den and heard Miss Destry on the phone in the next room. I heard her say, “Now, everything is going to be all right. And please don’t come around for a few days. People are sure to talk.”
I waited quietly where I was until I heard her talking to the housekeeper in the kitchen. Then I went directly there. By the time I got to the kitchen, Miss Destry was no longer there, but the housekeeper knew where all the bathrooms were and she steered me to one of the smaller ones.
When I came out again, I picked up a couple of copies of Life from the den. I was back in my original chair, reading, when Miss Destry came out in a simple black lastex swimming suit.
High breasts, slim legs, beautiful shoulders — all this and two million dollars Dennis Greene had owned and left behind.
She went down the steps into the shallow end of the pool and began to immerse herself slowly. I went back to the dull pages of Life.
About ten minutes later she’d had enough of swimming and had stretched out on a pad on the far side of the pool from me. I heard footsteps from behind, coming along the patio, and they sounded like a man’s footsteps. Alert and reliable, I turned quickly to check on our visitor.
He was a lot of man, tall, bronzed, with thick hair the color of wheat and with the shoulders of a weight-lifter. Miss Destry looked up and I thought annoyance showed briefly on her face. I wondered if this was the person she had warned to stay away.
“Hello, everybody,” he said jovially, and grinned at the girl. “I had no idea you had company.”
“Didn’t you see his car?” she asked coolly.
“I thought it was the housekeeper’s,” he said cheerily. “You told me you hired one.” He grinned at me. “No offense, old man.”
“I’m not old,” I said. He came over and held out a hand. “Of course not. A figure of speech. I guess Carol isn’t going to introduce us. My name’s David Hawley.”
I stood up and shook his strong hand. I thought he gave it a little more pressure than was absolutely necessary. I said, “Alex Bell is my name, Alex G. Bell.”
He chuckled. “No kidding. No relation to Don Ameche, I suppose?”
&
nbsp; “None,” I said. “Are you a friend of Ameche’s?” He stared at me a second and then the joviality returned. “A kidder from left field, huh?” He looked at Carol. “A relative, maybe?”
She shook her head, saying nothing. I sat down again and pretended to be interested in Life.
There was a silence of perhaps five seconds, but silences were plainly abhorrent to smiling Dave Hawley. He called to Carol, “I thought we could go over to the Club. Some of the gang are there. We could have dinner there.”
She yawned and shook her head. Another five-second silence and then David Hawley’s voice was less genial. “We had a date for dinner, I hope you remember.”
She nodded. “I’ll be waiting. Pick me up about seven. Is it all right if I rest, just for one afternoon?”
“Sure,” he said, after a second. “Of course. I’m sorry, Carol. I didn’t mean to come — I mean — well, sure, seven o’clock.” He glanced at me. “Glad to have met you, Mr. Bell.”
I nodded and smiled, and he went back from whence he came.
A little later, I heard the snort of a semi-muffled engine and the squeal of accelerating tires. Then silence again descended.
From the other side of the pool, Miss Destry asked, “Do you have any cigarettes? I forgot to bring any out.”
“Yes’m,” I said, and started to get up.
“Don’t bring them,” she said. “I’m coming over to the shade, anyway.”
She brought the pad along and flopped down on it in the shade of the lucite shelter. I lighted a cigarette and handed it down to her.
She said, “That Hawley man is indefatigable. Three sets of tennis, a two mile swim, eighteen holes of golf and dancing all night are his idea of a well-spent day.”
“The dancing would be enough for me,” I said. “I’ve done that for a solid five hour stretch. But I was never an athlete, thank God.”
“Honestly? You look like an athlete.”
“No I don’t. I look like a big, over-sexed and underpaid wop and that’s what I am.”
‘‘What’s wrong with athletes?” she asked.
“They never grow up. They stay exactly the age they were when they scored their last touchdown, hit their last homer or ran their fastest mile. They live and die adolescents.”
The Wayward Widow Page 1