Do Wah Diddy Die

by Pauline Baird Jones

  Mickey’s grin started the blood humming through her veins like electricity along a wire. “He has made...threats, but I wonder—”

  Luci quit trying not to look at him. There were some things that just couldn’t be fought. This was one of them. Her eyes liked looking at him. Her brain liked processing what her eyes saw, and her nerve endings like reacting to what her brain came up with. It was a fact, like her Seymour-ness. “What?”

  “I get the feeling he’d do it again if he got the chance.” He didn’t like admitting it. It was too close to how he felt about Luci. Any chance was better than no chance.

  “It wouldn’t be...smart,” Luci said, her eyes widening with the flickering heat of desire caught.

  Mickey stood and pulled her up. He brushed the dirt from her cheek, then used both hands to hold and position her head so that her mouth was an easy target. She didn’t object, didn’t fight him, just stared at him with that damn, curious Seymour gaze. If there hadn’t been so much heat in back of it and if her pulse hadn’t been humming like a revved up motor—

  “Sometimes you gotta take a chance, even when it’s world class stupid,” he said.

  Her mouth, normally so straight and so infuriating, curved into a smile that turned heat into fire as her arms slid around his neck.

  “Well, as long as you’re talking world class stupid, not the ordinary kind—”

  He kissed her to shut her up and to shut his brain off.

  It worked like a charm.

  “I have something, Mr. Dante.”

  Dante looked up at Max, surprise a strange expression on his usually expressionless face.

  He put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. “What?”

  Max hesitated again, unlike him. “You’re not going to like it.”

  “I haven’t liked anything since Cloris got involved with that bastard, Max. Spill it. I can take it.”

  “We’ve got a name—Maxwell’s cellmate in stir.”

  “And the winner is—”

  “Reggie Seymour—”

  Dante sucked in but didn’t speak, just indicated Max should continue.

  “—small-time con artist with more convictions than successes.”

  “Is he a relative of Luci Seymour?”

  “He’s the body they just found in their garden, Mr. Dante. A coincidence?”

  “I don’t think so.” Dante frowned. “This makes everything—different. Make sure the boys are packing when we go to the party.”

  “Yes, Mr. Dante.” He started to turn away.

  “Oh—and Max?”

  “Yes?”

  “Get me some mug shots of Maxwell from our man at the NOPD. Make sure everyone’s carrying a copy to that party. I have a feeling Artie Maxwell’s going to be there. And I don’t want him to get away.”

  “Right, Mr. Dante.” This time it was Max that hesitated.

  “What is it?”

  “How shall I tell them to deliver him?”

  “Dead, Max. I have nothing to say to him.”

  17

  It wasn’t easy for Mickey to concentrate on the case with his head and his heart hurting, but he had to try to find a common thread that would pull all the puzzling strings of the case together. Proximity wouldn’t help any of them recover from this visit to the Seymour Zone. Now that his ears had stopped ringing, he knocked back some more aspirin and started going through the information Pryce had brought them. Not that any of what he’d brought fit with any of the information they already had.

  There was Benny the Book. His file confirmed he worked for Dante, but not where he fit into the mix. He had a feeling Luci knew more about this and the shoeboxes and why Dante wanted them than she was sharing with him. Someone in this house was gambling, but who? None of the aunts seemed likely to be secret gamblers, but they made more sense than Unabelle, the waster of space his uncle would soon be marrying.

  “Damn.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Nothing made any sense! Somewhere, somehow, it had to be about money. With Dante involved, it couldn’t be anything else. But how? Where was it?

  All paths led to Reggie, but he was such a nowhere kind of guy it didn’t help much. Easy to speculate that he was working some kind of scam when he was executed, but difficult to figure out what that scam might be. How had a man who screwed up scams managed to put together something that netted enough money to interest someone like Dante, or his murderer—always assuming that’s why he was murdered? And if Reggie had come up with something so successful, how had he managed to do it without leaving any noticeable trace of it except for three dollar bills?

  Mickey pulled out the bagged envelopes with the dollar bills. The post marks put one from New York, the other from Idaho, the third from Puerto Rico.

  Mickey frowned at the list, managing to produce two rather meager conclusions. First, that this wasn’t Reggie’s main residence but a stopping over place. He hadn’t even left a pair of pajamas here. And second, a scam that netted single dollar bills, if that were the scam, couldn’t interest Dante. It had to be something else. Of course, he’d talk to a postal inspector. Mail fraud, no matter how petty, was their bailiwick and might produce a real clue.

  Mickey made a note, then looked at the list again. One final question teased his mind. If Reggie didn’t live here with the Seymours—

  “Then where does he live?” Mickey muttered aloud to the empty room.

  “Talking to yourself now, Ross?” Delaney growled from the doorway. He hunched his shoulders and stalked further into the room, gloom riding heavy on his brow. He dropped into the chair across from Mickey, his face daring Mickey to ask about his thwarted love life.

  “Just thinking out loud,” Mickey said,. The sick dog look in his eyes made Mickey uncomfortable. What do you tell a buddy who’s hot for a ghost? At least Mickey’s love life involved a living, breathing human being, even if he did sometimes long to make her a ghost. “I—was looking over this list of items you guys found when you searched Reggie’s bedroom upstairs.”

  “And?”

  “Well, he’s getting mail here, but there’s no real sign this was his home base or what was his means of support. No clothes, just personal items you’d leave, say, at a girlfriend’s apartment where you sometimes stay over.” Mickey flipped open Reggie’s police file. “Yet this address is listed on his parole record as his last known. And he gets some of his mail here. If this address is the correct one, and not a smoke screen, where is his stuff? Because it’s not here.”

  “It’s probably in Cleveland.”

  Mickey flipped through the files. “No report from the Cleveland guys yet. I wish—” he stopped.

  “What?”

  “I wish I knew if it were urgent that we find out where he used to be. But we have no way of knowing if Reggie is connected to the threat against Luci.”

  “We’ll have to assume there’s a connection for now,” Delaney said, a hint of grimness in his voice. “At least, that’s what the Captain said just now.”

  Mickey shifted. “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault.” Delaney gave a halfhearted grin. “At least he isn’t talking involuntary retention at a state facility for both of us.”

  “Oh?” Mickey wasn’t sure if that was good or not. A padded cell sounded pretty good right now. Be a relief to spend some time with people who were less crazy than the Seymours.

  “Gracie was still with me. He got to meet her.”

  Mickey looked up from the clutter of paper. “Oh.”

  “He agrees with our decision to not officially include her in the investigative record. Particularly after she confirmed that the reports of her death haven’t been exaggerated.”

  “Is that the bad news?”

  “No. The bad news is, we’re not suspended yet.”

  “I suppose he can’t afford to lose anyone else right now,” Mickey said glumly. “It’s been a bad couple of months for everybody.”

  “Yeah.” Delaney’s
second attempt at a grin was less strained. “And looking to be a bad couple more unless we can figure this case out. Only way we’re getting out of here.”

  They worked until lunchtime, making notes, occasionally bouncing ideas off each other, but mostly working in silence as they went over the accumulated information.

  Finally, Delaney threw down his pencil and leaned back in his chair, stretching. He didn’t look at Mickey when he said, “You know we’re going to have to talk to Unabelle again. If she’s our gambler—” He hesitated. “We’ll have to question Eddie, too.”

  Mickey nodded. “I know. I put it at the top of the list of unpleasant things we’re going to have to do. We’ll have to pay Dante a visit, too.”

  “Yeah. Rack up some billable hours for his lawyer.”

  “I wish we could figure out what the shoeboxes are—”

  “Or why Dante wants them?” Delaney frowned. “Obvious answer would be drugs, but Dante’s never done the drug route. And if he did change his mind, Unabelle’s hardly the logical outlet for that. I mean, she looks like she’s on drugs, but—”

  “Yeah.” Mickey gave a rueful grin as he shoved his hands through his hair, then he frowned. “You found the mail, didn’t you? Any thoughts on why Reggie would be getting dollar bills through the mail?”

  Delaney was silent for a moment. “I suppose it could be some kind of scam. But it’s a pretty pathetic effort. How far can you get with a dollar a pop?”

  “Seems to have gotten Reggie only as far as the bougainvillea,” Mickey said.

  Luci needed to think, had needed to since Boudreaux’s revelation in the garden that there might be another body, but it was hard with Mickey turning up here and there in the house and her father turning up where Mickey wasn’t. The only place she hadn’t run into either was the bathroom, so that’s where she retreated to, hoping to sort things out in her mind.

  Luci closed the lid, settled herself as comfortably as she could and pulled a notebook out of one pocket, a stubby pencil out of another. It was a pity that she and Mickey couldn’t have one of those cozy, confiding sleuth-cop relationships so popular in series mysteries. If she only knew what Mickey and Delaney knew—

  Of course, being an insider, a Seymour who was in the family but not completely of it, gave her an edge that all the forensic investigation and computer databases in the country couldn’t give Mickey. She flipped open her notebook and started writing down questions:

  1. Who was the other body in the freezer?

  2. Why had Reggie moved in with her aunts?

  3. Did her aunts kill both victims? Not likely, but couldn’t rule it out.

  4. Was someone really trying to kill her? Why?

  5. What was she going to do about Mickey Ross?

  After the last question she added a notation in parentheses. Was it only his kiss that curled her toes or would just any guy do that to her?

  Neatly, but with thick writing because the pencil was getting dull, Luci finished her list with:

  6. Where is the body Boudreaux saw?

  7. What kind of scam nets dollar bills?

  8. Could Reggie have come up with a successful scam? How would that impact the space/time continuum?

  9. Could Unabelle be a closet gambling addict?

  10. What’s wrong with Velma?

  11. Am I like my mother? Do I care?

  It was a good list of questions. Too bad she didn’t have good answers to go with them. A knock at the door interrupted her ruminations. She sighed, stood up, stowed her pencil and notebook, and opened the door.

  “I need to go,” Unabelle said with no inflection to her voice.

  “Sorry.” Luci stepped past her, then stopped to ask, “You don’t know where a girl could place a bet, do you?”

  For just a moment, so quick Luci almost missed it, something flickered in the mud brown of Unabelle’s eyes. Then the door closed between them.

  “I’m not sure the lava lamp was a good idea,” Fern said as she tried to fit the wrapping paper around its odd shape. “A toaster—”

  “I ain’t buying a new gift for someone I don’t know!” Donald scowled at her. “Now can we talk about how we’re gonna do the bitch?”

  Fern gave him a look, then sighed. “Fine. But if I don’t get this wrapped, we don’t get in the door! Think the bulls won’t be suspicious of us coming to a posh party with some crappy gift in torn wrappers? Least we ought to have a box!”

  “The pawn shop didn’t have no box, Fern. Like I told you—”

  The discussion was briefly loud and acrimonious. Until someone in the next room banged on the wall.

  Dante’s Aunt Cloris didn’t look like a gangster’s relative. She was at the high end of middle age with a bland face, uncertain eyes and a doughy body stuffed unevenly into a girdle. She tended to flutter—her eyelashes, her hands, her voice—when she was distressed, and let the stars and horoscopes rule her life. This was why Dante went to great lengths to keep her from getting upset. It annoyed the hell out of him—made him want to kill somebody, since he couldn’t kill her.

  “You telling me Arvin didn’t tell you anything about his business? Didn’t even give you a phone number to call?”

  “He called me every night. I didn’t need to call him,” she said, her voice wavering as she tried to control a sob. “He traveled, didn’t have a fixed number.”

  “Do you know where he called from?” Dante tried to keep the edge out of his voice as he looked at the impassive Max. “We need something, somewhere to start a search.”

  “He called from a lot of different places. His business took him all over the country. Besides, you just want to kill him—”

  “I just want to talk to him. Bring him back to you if I can, so you’ll be happy again.”

  She tried to give him a penetrating look, but her nose was running and tears blurred her eyes. “Duluth,” she finally admitted. “He did business in Duluth sometimes. And Salt Lake. And Cleveland. I think he might have worked with someone there.”

  Dante looked at Max. “What makes you think he had a partner, Cloris?”

  “He told me he had a partner.”

  Dante hid his impatience. If only she’d told him—no sense worrying now. They’d find this partner. If he weren’t already lying on a slab in the morgue.

  “Did he tell you his name?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. You did the right thing, for both you and Arvin, telling me. If you think of anything else, you just come and tell me, okay?” He patted her hand, giving Max a sharp nod towards the door. “Max and I are going to get things rolling. You just stay here until you feel better. Then I’ll take you out to choose a new dress for the party on Sunday. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Outside the door, Dante turned to Max. “Didn’t the snitch say something about contacting the Cleveland police?”

  “That’s right. About Reggie Seymour.”

  “Ten’ll get you one Reggie Seymour’s the partner.”

  “You think Arvin Marvin or Artie did Seymour?”

  “It does seem obvious, doesn’t it?” Dante was quiet for a moment, then said softly, “Find him, Max. And do him. Quick and quiet.”

  “Yes, Mr. Dante.”

  “Oh, and find a wedding gift for this party thing. Something nice, Max. Like a toaster or one of those fancy plates. The kind with the gold around the edges.”

  Dante frowned and Max shifted. “Anything wrong, Mr. Dante?”

  “I’m worried about Benny. If the cops are on top of the Seymours—better pick him up. Keep him under wraps until we get the deal locked down.

  It rained early the morning of the party, but as soon as the sun got going it turned the moisture into a fog of steam over the city. Luci’s aunts rose late, trailing peacefully downstairs attired in robes, Miss Theo and Miss Hermi in drifting silk and Miss Weena in chiffon, to linger over a breakfast buffet prepared by Louise. The caterers milled around, wondering when they would be able to begin preparations.


  Mickey, who was trying to finalize preparations for the security detail during the party, found himself fielding party detail questions instead.

  “If we have two roving details—” Delaney, bent over the floor plan of the house, a plan they were using to assign the security teams Pryce had given them.

  “Where do you want us to put the tables, sir?” asked one of the caterers.

  Mickey, his hands braced on the table, looked up. “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask the housekeep—”

  Delaney cleared his throat, giving a small shake of his head.

  Mickey bent his head. “You’ll need to talk to the ladies. That’s all I can tell you.”

  The florist came next. Then the bandleader. Then a group of carefully sculpted young men calling themselves the Hepplewhites.

  That’s when Mickey lost it. “Look I don’t know a damn thing about anything. Let me take you to the women with the answers!”

  He strode across the hall and shoved open the dining room door. They were all seated around the table, empty plates pushed away, chatting.

  “Oh, Mickey, dear!” Miss Hermi turned, her voice comfortable. “Have you had breakfast yet? Louise is about to clear away—”

  “No thank you. However, these people all have questions about the party that I can’t answer. Do you think—”

  Luci stood up, moving around the table, wearing a plaid robe that came down far enough on her legs to be tantalizing without being either too generous or too stingy.

  “I recognize the caterers, the florist, and the band, but who,” she moved closer to a well-muscled chest and looked up, her eyes lit with admiration, “are you?”

  White teeth gleamed when the young man smiled. “We’re the Hepplewhites—”

  “I hired them for the party,” Miss Weena explained, gazing at a pair of well-formed pecs just visible through the deep vee on one young man’s shirt.

  Luci looked at her aunt. “All right, Miss Weena. Give me five!” Miss Weena obliged. Luci sighed deeply enough to make her robe gap briefly.