The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories)

by Bernico, Bill

  “Hello,” she said in a meek voice.

  I nodded. “Hello,” I said, nervously looking around the room. “They certainly know how to throw a party, don’t they?”

  “Yes, they do,” the woman said.

  “My name’s Matt Cooper,” I said, setting my plate of cookies down on the table and extending my hand.

  “And I’m Margaret Sanders,” the woman said, taking my hand and shaking it lightly before releasing it again. “You’re new here, aren’t you? I mean, I’ve been to several of these gatherings, but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you here before.”

  “No,” I said. “This is my first time. I just thought I try it out and see if their ads were telling the truth.”

  “And what did you decide?” Margaret said.

  “That they were right,” I said. “You do meet a better class of people though their agency.” I winked at her and smiled.

  “Why, Mr. Cooper,” Margaret said. “I believe you were flirting?”

  “I was that obvious?” I said.

  Margaret nodded. “Uh huh,” she said. “But it was cute. Let me guess, you’ve been out of practice for a while, haven’t you?”

  “I guess I have,” I said. “I’ve been a widower for fifteen years now. What about you?”

  “Eight years,” Margaret said. “You know, sometimes when I come home from shopping or from a place like this, I still half expect to see Robert coming down the stairs to welcome me home. Funny how you can still feel their presence after so many years, isn’t it?”

  “I know what you mean,” I said. “My Amy’s been gone so long that just when I think I’m getting used to the feeling, something reminds me of her and I miss her all over again. You too?”

  “Me too,” Margaret said. “Do you have any children, Mr. Cooper?”

  “Margaret,” I said, “I’ve already winked and smiled at you. In some countries, that’s the same as going steady. So please, call me Matt.”

  “See, Matt,” Margaret said. “You’re getting better at this already.”

  That brought a broad smile to my face and I could feel myself relaxing a bit. “Would you like to find a seat somewhere and continue our conversation, Margaret?”

  “Yes I would, Matt,” she said. “And as long as we’re dropping the formalities, you can call me Peggy. Everyone else does.”

  “All right, Peggy,” I said. “There’s a couple of chairs by the fireplace. Let’s grab ‘em before some old people beat us to it.”

  Peggy chuckled and her eyes twinkled and it made me feel good to make a connection with another woman. We talked for the better part of an hour before the hostess informed everyone that the night was coming to an end.

  “Well,” I said, rising from my chair. “This has certainly been a fun evening.” I extended my hand and Peggy took it. I pulled her to a standing position and stood there awkwardly not knowing what to say next. I looked around the room and noticed that we were among the last to leave. I walked Peggy outside to her car. She drove a Buick sedan.

  “I’ve always driven an Oldsmobile,” I said, just to have something to say. “But I’ll bet you get some good service out of your Buick, too.”

  Peggy nodded. “I guess so,” she said. “I don’t know the first thing about cars. I just get in and step on the gas. Anything more involved than that and I’m lost.”

  I sighed and said, “So,” and left it hang there in the air like an unpopped soap bubble.

  “I guess I’ll see you at the next one of these,” Peggy said.

  My detective mode kicked in and I threw out a couple of leading questions that would tell me more about the lady without having to come right out and ask her. “Do you have very far to drive?” I said, hoping she’d at least tell me what street she lived on so I could look her up in the phone book.

  “Not too far,” Peggy said. “Just over to Western and Santa Monica. Couple of minutes away, that’s all. What about you?”

  “Just down the street,” I said. “I’ve got an apartment on Franklin. I was living with my son in Glendale, but you know how that goes. I was getting the feeling that I might be cramping his style so I got my own place.”

  There was a long pause where neither of us knew what to say. Peggy broke the silence and said, “Well, good night, Matt.” She slid behind the wheel of her Buick and rolled her window down. “You drive careful now.”

  “You too, Peggy,” I said and turned to walk to my car. “Good night.”

  I was just about to start my Olds when Peggy drove her car next to mine and made the rolling motion with her hand. I rolled my window down and looked at her.

  “You wouldn’t like to go somewhere for a cup of coffee, would you, Matt?” she said.

  “I’d like that,” I said. “Where did you have in mind?”

  “How about the Gold Cup over on Hollywood Boulevard?” Peggy said. “They’re open all night.”

  “Sounds great,” I said. “I’ll follow you there.”

  We parked our cars in the parking lot alongside the building and walked into the coffee shop. We took the booth in the corner furthest away from the front door. The waitress came over, took our order, and returned in a few moments with two cups of coffee.

  “Would you like anything else?” the waitress said.

  I looked at Peggy and she shook her head. “Nothing else, thanks,” I said, and the waitress moved on to another table.

  Peggy took a sip from her cup and set it down again. “So, tell me, Matt” she said, “What did you do?”

  I looked down at my suit, thinking I might have spilled something on it. When I looked up at her she was smiling.

  “No,” she said. “I meant what did you do for a living? I’m assuming you’re retired now.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I was a cop for a few years and then quit to open my own private investigation agency.”

  “That must have been exciting,” Peggy said. “How long did you do that?”

  I thought for a moment and then said, “For thirty years, from 1946 until 1976 when my son took over the operation. I still help out occasionally, but he’s pretty much got it under control.”

  “What about these last four years?” Peggy said. “How have you been keeping yourself busy?”

  “You mean do I have any hobbies?” I said. “Nothing, really. I might go fishing once or twice a year so I guess you couldn’t really call that a hobby. I don’t know. I just take life one day at a time and I enjoy every minute of it. What about you? Did you work somewhere around here?”

  “Nothing as exciting as being a private eye,” Peggy said. “I was a mother and homemaker for the first twenty years of my marriage, until the kids were grown and gone. Then I started to get a little restless and decided to volunteer one day a week at the hospital. One day a week soon turned into four days a week and before I knew it, I was in a paying job with them. I work in the office, mostly with record keeping.”

  “You still do that?” I said.

  “Heavens, no,” Peggy said. “I gave it up two years ago when my hands just wouldn’t cooperate with my brain and I couldn’t type anymore. Now I just do occasional gardening.”

  Peggy and I talked for another forty-five minutes before we ran out of things to say. She drove home and I did the same, happy to have had the time to spend with her. Tomorrow I planned to look her up in the phone book and if she wasn’t listed, I always had my investigative skills to fall back on.

  The next morning I was up by eight, showered, shaved and dressed and had my breakfast gone before nine. I left the apartment and drove to my old office to see Clay. He usually had something for me to do and I was glad to have something to help pass my time. I walked in without knocking and a flood of memories came back to me in that office I’d occupied for thirty years.

  “Morning, dad,” Clay said, looking up from his newspaper. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Very well,” I said and smiled.

  Clay folded the paper shut. “All right,” he said, “let
’s have it.”

  “Have what?” I said innocently.

  “It,” Clay said. “I called last night and no one answered. From that I can assume that you went out somewhere and being the trained sleuth that I am, I know that you didn’t go anywhere with one of your friends and last night was not your night for swimming at the Y. So, what does that leave? Let me guess. Could it possibly be a woman?”

  “Say, you’re good,” I said.

  “I had a good teacher,” Clay said. “Who is she?”

  I poured myself a cup of coffee from Clay’s coffee pot and sat opposite him at the desk. “Just someone I met last night,” I said. “Very nice lady, too.”

  Clay cupped his hand and wiggled his fingers several times. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”

  “There’s nothing much to tell, really,” I said. “We had coffee at The Gold Cup on Hollywood and just talked and then we each went home alone. Not too exciting, I know, but that’s all that happened.”

  “Gees,” Clay said, “I could get a more interesting story out of Gertrude,” he said, referring to the woman who cleaned his office once a week. “You gonna call her?”

  “Gertrude?” I said. “No, she’s not my type.”

  “Not Gertrude, you smart ass,” Clay said. “The woman from last night.”

  “Well,” I said. “I didn’t exactly get her number last night, but I did ask if she lived in the neighborhood. I figured I could always look her up in the phone book.”

  Clay slid his bottom left desk drawer open and pulled out the Hollywood phone book and flipped it open to the white pages. “I hope you at least got her last name,” Clay said. “Even a trained gumshoe like me has to have something to go on.”

  “Sanders,” I said. “Margaret Sanders and she said she lived near Western and Santa Monica. Is that enough for you to find her?”

  Clay flipped pages, stopping on the S section and ran his finger down the list of names. “Let’s see,” he said, “Sanders, Sanders. There’s a David Sanders, a Kenneth Sanders, and then Martin Sanders. Nope, no Margaret Sanders. Nice play there, dad. Now how are you going to call her?”

  “Let me see that,” I said, taking the phone book from him and running my finger down the page. “Here we go,” I said, jotting the number down on a piece of paper. Clay looked at me sideways.

  “What did you find that I couldn’t?” he said.

  “Robert Sanders,” I said. “She told me she was widowed and my guess is that she just kept the listing as it was when she was married.”

  Clay picked up his desk phone and placed it near me. “Go ahead,” he said. “See if she remembers you.”

  “How could she not remember me?” I said. “I was just with her last night.”

  “You know how it is with people your age,” Clay said. “You can tell me in great detail about something you did fifty years ago but you can’t tell me what you had for breakfast.”

  “Eggs and juice, if you must know,” I said.

  “So call her,” Clay said. “You scared?”

  Clay knew how to push my buttons and I accepted the challenge. I dialed the number I’d written down and let it ring three times before a man answered.

  “Hello,” the man said.

  I looked at the piece of paper I had in front of me and then said, “Is this 555-3289?”

  “Yes,” the man said. “Who am I talking to?”

  “Matt,” I said. “Matt Cooper. Who is this?”

  “Matt?” he said, “This is detective Hollister. Dean.”

  “Dean?” I said. “What are you doing there?”

  “More importantly,” Dean said. “Why are you calling here?”

  “I’m looking for Peggy,” I said. “I mean Margaret Sanders.”

  “How do you know her, Matt?” Dean said, his voice now sounding a little more official.

  “I just met Peggy last night,” I said. “What’s going on over there, Dean?”

  “Matt,” Dean said. “I got a call from one of the neighbors. Mrs. Sanders is dead.”

  “What?” I said, not totally believing what I was hearing.

  “Where are you calling from?” Dean said.

  “I’m in Clay’s office,” I said. “Clay’s here, too.”

  “Stay there,” Dean said. “I’ll be right over.” He hung up and I listened to the dial tone for a few seconds before I remembered to do the same.

  Clay saw the change in my face. “What’s happening, dad?” he said.

  “That was Dean Hollister,” I explained. “Peggy’s dead. I don’t understand it. We were just talking not more than twelve hours ago. I don’t get it.”

  “Did Dean tell you anything else?” Clay said.

  “He just said to wait here,” I told him. “He’s on his way over.”

  Fifteen minutes later Dean Hollister arrived with two uniformed officers. He didn’t bother knocking and just walked in.

  “Dean,” Clay said. “What’s all this about dad’s friend being dead?”

  “As dead as they come,” Dean said and then turned to me. “What time did you say you left her, Matt?”

  I thought for a moment and then offered, “I first met her at a social gathering around seven-thirty,” I said. “We talked for a while and we were about to leave when she suggested we go get some coffee at the Gold Cup on the boulevard.”

  “What time was that?” Dean said, flipping open his notepad and retrieving a pen from his shirt pocket.

  “I’d say we got to the coffee shop around nine-fifteen,” I said. “Right after we left the gathering. We sat there talking some more until just before ten and then we went our separate ways.”

  “So you didn’t go home with her, is that what you’re saying?” Dean said.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” I said. “I never saw her again after that.”

  Clay sat up in his chair and looked at Dean. “Has the M.E. determined the time of death yet?”

  “His best guess puts it at around ten-thirty,” Dean said. “With a margin of error plus or minus thirty minutes, so you can see why I have to ask these questions.”

  I nodded. “There must have been someone waiting for her when she came home,” I said.

  Dean looked at his notes. “No sign of any forced entry,” he said. “Nothing disturbed inside the place to indicate a fight of any kind.”

  “And what was the cause of death?” I said.

  “Strangulation,” Dean said without hesitation. “When we found her she had a red silk scarf tied around her neck.”

  Clay was standing now. “Dad already told you that they parted company at the coffee house around ten,” he said.

  Dean was still writing in his notepad. “And you say you went straight home, Matt?” he said.

  “I didn’t say that yet, but that’s just what I did,” I told him.

  “Can anyone corroborate your story?” Dean said.

  “It’s not a story,” I said more forcefully now. “And no, I live alone in my apartment so there was no one there to see me come home.”

  “Well, then,” Clay said. “It looks like you were the last person to see her alive.”

  I shook my head. “Next to last,” I said. “Her killer would have been the last.”

  Dean nodded to one of the officers, who stepped forward with his handcuffs off his belt. Dean turned to me and said, “Sorry, Matt, but you know the procedures I have to follow. This is just routine you understand.”

  I turned around and held my hands behind my back.

  “There’s no need for that,” Dean said, turning me around and securing the cuffs in front of me.

  “Dad,” Clay said, “I’ll have you out in the morning, just sit tight and don’t say another word to anyone.”

  “That would be good advice if I’d killed her,” I said, “but it’s just not the case here.”

  “Still,” Clay said. “Stay quiet until I get there with the lawyer, okay?”

  “Okay, mom,” I said.

&nbs
p; I was no stranger to jail. It was an occupational hazard, like hunger or a cramp in your foot. I knew it was just a matter of time before Clay would come with my release papers, so I took advantage of the quiet time and slept most of my sentence away. Clay was there bright and early the next morning and I was released.

  “Did you put up your house again for bail?” I asked.

  “I didn’t have to,” Clay said. “You’re off the hook. There was another strangulation murder last night while you were in here. Same kind of scarf.”

  “That’s good for me,” I said, “but not so good for the victim.”

  Clay looked at me and said, “You know, this reminds me of that Beatles album from 1967, Sgt. Pepper. Only in this case you could call it Sgt. Cooper’s Lonely Hearts Club Frame. After all, you almost got framed for a murder you didn’t do.”

  I shrugged, my face one big question mark.

  “Sgt. Pepper,” Clay said. “Only their masterpiece album.”

  “Tell me about Glenn Miller or Gene Krupa and I’ll know what you’re talking about. I don’t give two hoots about the Beatles or their masterpiece album.”

  Clay looked at Dean and we exchanged a look that told each other we were talking to the wrong generation. “That’s not all,” Clay said. “Dean and I both did some checking and we found something very interesting, to say the least.”

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “Dean put out some inquiries to police departments across the country,” Clay said. “Seems there was a similar murder in New York three weeks ago and another one with the same M.O. in Dayton, Ohio two weeks ago. We got notification of another such murder in St. Louis ten days ago and believe it or not, the same kind of killing in Oklahoma City just a week ago.”

  “Sounds like he’s working his way west,” I said. “Let me guess. You found another one in Santa Fe recently.”

  “Close,” Clay said. “Actually it was in a sleepy little town called Tucumcari, New Mexico. Same guy, no doubt about it. He hit again in Needles near the Arizona border six days ago.”

  “Gees,” I said. “Doesn’t this guy ever take a break and just pass through a town without lowering its population before he leaves?”

  “There’s a little gas station just outside of San Bernardino,” Clay said. “Two days ago they found a female clerk behind the counter with a red silk scarf around her throat. And yesterday he found Margaret Sanders here in town. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess.”