The Kubla Khan Caper (The Shell Scott Mysteries)
Page 18
Misty squeezed my hand. She could squeeze it because she was seated close on my left.
It had to be my left. I was occupying the last seat on the right, next to a square of emptiness. Not that I was an outcast, not exactly. It was just that most of the other judges didn’t want to get too close to me.
A couple of them had dug me in the ribs with sly—and stupid—elbows; four were sort of cautiously genial; the New York haute couture lad—who designed dashing things from black leather, pieces of tin and, I suspected, hangmen’s nooses—had looked upon me with sheer loathing; and his celebrated model had slapped my face for no good reason, at least none that I could readily understand. I suppose maybe she felt I’d lowered the Dignity Quotient of the entire judges’ panel.
Simon Leaf, of course, was not speaking to me at all. When I’d approached him he’d started quivering. So I left him alone.
Only Misty, grand and gorgeous and marvelous Misty, had truly stood by me—and, now, sat by me. Of course, while the events which had precipitated the others’ reactions had been unfolding, or unrolling, or coming undone, Misty had been getting strangled, which I suppose made a difference.
The orchestra struck up the intro for the next contestant as Misty said, “And Jerry shot at you, right after he’d killed Jeanne?”
“Yeah. He plugged Sardis, scooted to the Khan and was in a pay phone booth waiting for the right time to call the sheriff when he saw Jeanne buzz out of the hotel and into her car, taking a powder. Well, he had to kill her. As long as she was alive she could not only still prove he wasn’t married to Neyra but also—since he’d already knocked off Sardis—reveal his motive for the murder.
“He shot her, gave her another in the head for his peace of mind, and then, to make it look, perhaps, like a strong-arm job, a robbery—since Sardis had told him about giving Jeanne the twenty thousand—grabbed the bills in her purse and took off up Moss Mountain. Dropping a few C-notes on the way so the deputies couldn’t possibly miss the assumption of theft—Jerry had already made sure Sergeant Torgesen knew of the fifty thousand Sardis kept in his safe. It wasn’t good enough, but it wasn’t such a bad idea at that, even though Vail was already getting twitchy, starting to realize what he’d gotten himself into. Getting very twitchy. For example, not long after killing Jeanne, he saw me sitting next to Neyra in the Seraglio. He didn’t want me to think he’d recognized me—havifg in his own mind the guilty knowledge that he’d just taken a bunch of shots at me—but he kind of overdid the ever-lovin’ tough-man bit, too. Well, they all make mistakes. And eurder’s the big one.”
The fourth contestant of the evening, now striding with ball-bearing fluidity onto the stage, was as dark as the last beauty had been light. Dark skin, black hair, hot-chocolate eyes. Lyssa.
I hadn’t seen her since—well, since around noon. So I didn’t have the faintest idea how she might react to my presence, and therefore did not howl, or holler at her, or even wave.
She walked up the runway, head back slightly, fine breasts leading the way and beckoning a little, firm—and ungirdled—hips moving with the same swinging rhythm she could put into her voice, or eyes, or lips.
Past us she went. Not a look, not a glance._
“You never did tell me exactly what happened, Shell,” Misty wispered. “About your trousers and all.”
“Who do you think’s going to win?” I said. “I mean, so far. Of course, there’s lots to go yet—”
“Shell—”
“Shh.” I sounded like Bull, I thought, only a thousand times less gassy.
Misty sniffed. But in a moment she said, “You’re going to have to tell me. If you don’t, I’ll find somebody who will.”
“You mean you haven’t found anybody yet?”
“Maybe Simon knows—”
“OK. Just shh, will you? I’ll tell you. Later.”
“All right. Shell, I’m broad-minded. It’s just that I want to know.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re broad-minded. I just don’t know if you’re . . . broad-minded enough.”
“But you will tell me?”
“I’ll, ah, do my best.”
“After the contest, then. We’ll have a drink in my suite, all right?”
I smiled. “I’ll buy that.”
Lyssa was coming back by us now, almost level with Misty and me, and above us on the elevated runway.
Misty said, “Just one, of course.”
“Of course, just one,” I said.
Lyssa glanced out over the audience, down at Misty, then her eyes caught mine. She didn’t smile, her lips didn’t move, or wiggle, or sizzle; but quick as a wink—she winked.
“You quit that,” I said.
“What?” That was Misty.
“I was . . . ah, just talking to myself. I guess.” Then I squeezed Misty’s hand and said, “Shh. Later, dear. Later, we’ll talk.”
She smiled.
And I leaned back in my chair, watching Lyssa, wondering what she’d do for her dramatic bit. And, if she became one of the finalists—since the top five came back for a different routine—what she’d do for an encore.
I relaxed on some of my sore spots, and gazed contentedly at Lyssa, feeling Misty’s soft, warm hand in my own, and wondered about Lyssa, Bull, Misty, Monaco, Simon Leaf, lots of people, wondered how the contest would turn out—and what would happen then. Then, tonight, tomorrow and in the days ahead.
But soon I let it all drift out of my mind and simply sat, enjoying myself. No sense pushing it around, or worrying it to death, or even wondering. Let it happen if it was going to happen, and look on the bright side—if you can find it. That’s the ticket. And there always is a bright side, somewhere. At least, that’s what I think. Of course, I sometimes suspect perhaps I’m not really cut out for thinking.
But what the hell, let it happen, I told myself, as lovely, and ugly, fragments from these last twenty-four hours and then some drifted through my mind; just wait and see.
Sure, there are nights, I suppose, when no matter what you do there’s fee-fi-fo-fum in the darkness. Maybe something’s gonna reach out and grab you. But light’s just around the edge of that darkness; it’s only shadow. And things will, and do, work out OK if you let them, if you give them a chance. Enough of the time, anyway; most of the time.
At least, that’s what I think.
So I sat and waited, and squeezed Misty’s hand, and caught Lyssa’s eye, and winked.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1966 by Richard S. Prather
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4804-9871-6
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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he Kubla Khan Caper (The Shell Scott Mysteries)