The Girl In The Plain Brown Wrapper Part 11

"After I told you you had never heard of any note?"

"But this was different, Al."

"He just walked up and asked you what we found in the apartment?"

"No. What he said was that he was upset about her being killed. He was out to the place real early yesterday. I'd just got up and I was walking around calling the dog. He said he and his wife were very fond of her and grateful to her. He said he didn't want to get out of line or step on any toes, but he wondered if maybe outside investigators ought to be brought in, and he thought he might be able to arrange it. Al, I know how you feel about anything like that, so I told him it looked like we could make it. He asked if we had much of anything to go on, and I said we had that note and told him what I could remember of it and said that the fellow she wrote it to, meaning you, McGee, had checked out okay."

"What kept you from falling down laughing?"

"About what, Al?"

"That line about him and his wife being fond of the little nurse. And grateful to her? Jesus!"

"What's wrong with that?"

"Why in the world would Janice Holton be grateful to Penny Woertz?"

"Who said anything about Janice Holton?"

"Didn't you say Holton told you that-"

"Holton! It was Mr. Tom Pike that stopped at the place. I haven't said one d.a.m.n word to Mr. Holton. Mr. Tom Pike only had a couple of minutes. He was on his way to the airport and he was taking the shortcut, the back road past my place, and saw me and stopped because, like he said, he was upset about the girl getting killed. Now you agree it was different? Do you?"

The anger sagged out of Stanger. "Okay. It was different. He's the kind of guy who'd want to help any way he can. And the nurse helped take care of Mrs. Pike. Now, dammit, Lew, did you say one word to anybody else about any note?"

"Never did. Not once. And I won't, Al."

"You shouldn't have told Pike either."

Stanger turned to me. "Back where we started. Look, I'll get it out of Holton and if I think you ought to know, I'll let you know, McGee."

I motioned to him and took him out of earshot of Nudenbarger. "Any more little errands on the side, as long as I'm stuck here?"

He scowled, spat, scuffed his foot. "I've got men ringing every doorbell in the whole area around that Ridge Lane place. Somebody had to arrive and kill her and leave in broad daylight. Somebody had to see something on Sat.u.r.day afternoon. I've got men going through the office files of Doc Sherman that went into storage when he died, and the files that were taken over by the doctor who took over Sherman's practice, Doctor John Wayne. h.e.l.l of a name, eh? Little fat fellow. Sherman treated some crazies when he was researching barbiturate addiction. So we don't want to rule out the chance of an ex-patient going after the office nurse. She'd been working as a special-duty nurse, so I got hold of the list of patients she took care of ever since the doctor died, and we're going through those. On top of that I've got a good man digging into her private life, every d.a.m.ned thing he can find, the ex-husband, previous boyfriends. Nothing was stolen from the apartment. She lived alone. Those are good solid front doors and good locks on the kitchen doors. I think she would have to know somebody to let them in. No sign of forcible entry. From the condition of the bed, she was sleeping and got up and put the robe on and let somebody in. No makeup. A man or woman could have shoved those shears into her throat. We've got a blood pattern, a spatter pattern. Whoever did it could have gotten some on them from the knees down. To reconstruct it, she put both hands to her throat, staggered back, fell to her knees, then rolled over onto her back. She hadn't been s.e.xually molested. There were indications she'd had intercourse within from four to six hours from the time of death. She wasn't pregnant. She was going to start her period in about three days. She had a slightly sprained ankle, based on some edema and discoloration. There was a small contusion just above the hairline at the center of her forehead and a contusion on her right knee, but these three injuries had occurred a considerable time before death. We're processing a court order to get into her checking account records and her safety deposit box. Now if you can come up with something I just haven't happened to think of, McGee..."

It was a challenge, of course. And I was supposed to be overwhelmed by the diligence and thoroughness of the law.

"What about delivery and service people? Dry cleaners, laundry, TV repairs, phone, plumber, electrician? What about the apartment superintendent, if any?"

He sighed heavily. He was upwind of me and even outdoors he had breath like a cannibal bat. "Son of a gun. Would you believe me if I told you that was all in the works, but I just forgot to mention it?"

"I'd believe you, Stanger. I think you might be pretty good at your job."

"I'll write that in my diary tonight."

"What about the nurses' day room at the hospital? She'd probably have a locker there. There might be some personal stuff in it."

He sighed again and took out his blue notebook and wrote it down. "One for you."

"Maybe there's another one too. If there is, can I check it out? I have... a personal interest in this, you know."

"If there's another one, you can check it out."

"I don't think a registered nurse would be doing the billing and the bookkeeping and keeping the appointment book. So there probably had to be another girl working for Sherman, part time or full time."

He squinted at the bright sky. He nodded. "And she was on vacation when he killed himself. Just now remembered. Okay, go ahead, dammit. Can't recall her name. But Doctor Wayne's office girl would know. Just don't try to carry the ball if you come up with anything. Report to me first."

"And you tell me what you find out from Holton."

"Deal."

He trudged toward the waiting car. I went back inside and used a pay phone in the lobby to call Dr. Wayne's office. The answering service told me they opened the office at noon on Mondays.

I went back to 109. The cart was outside the door, the maid just finis.h.i.+ng up. She was a brawny, handsome black woman. Her skin tone was a flawless coppery brown, and across the cheekbones she looked as if she had an admixture of Indian blood.

"Be through here in a minute," she said.

"Take your time."

She was making up the bed. I sat on the straight chair by the desk module that was part of the long formica countertop. I found the phone number for D. Wintin Hardahee and as I wrote it down I saw the maid out of the corner of my eye and for a moment thought she was dancing. When I turned and looked at her, I saw that she was swaying, feet planted, chin on her chest, eyes closed. She lifted her head and gave me a distant smile and said, "Feeling kind of... kind of..." Then she closed her eyes and toppled forward. Her head and shoulders landed facedown on the bed and she slipped and bounded loosely off and landed on the floor, rolling onto her back. Suddenly I knew what must have happened. I went to the closet alcove and bent and picked the doctored bottle of gin out of the corner where I had put it and, stupidly, forgotten it. There were a couple of fresh drops of colorless liquid on the outside of the bottle, on the shoulder of it. Any moisture would have long since dried up in the dehumidifying effect of the air conditioning. I licked a drop off with my tongue tip. Plain water. So she had taken a nice little morning pickup out of the bottle and replaced it with tap water.

I went to her and knelt beside her. Her pulse was strong and good, and she was breathing deeply and regularly. She wore a pale blue uniform trimmed with white. Over the blouse pocket was embroidered, in red, "Cathy."

After weighing pros and cons and cursing my idiocy for leaving the gin where somebody might find it, I went looking for another maid. There was a cart on the long balcony overhead, in front of an open door to one of the second-floor units. I went up the iron stairs and rapped on the open door and went in. The maid came out of the bathroom. She was younger than Cathy, small and lean, with matte skin the shade of a cup of coffee, double on the cream. She wore orange lipstick, had two white streaks bleached into her dark hair, and a projection of astonis.h.i.+ngly large b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her embroidery said "Lorette."

"Sir, I just now started in here. I can come back if-"

"It isn't my room. Are you a friend of Cathy's?"

"You looking for her, great big strong girl, she's working the downstairs wing right under here, mister."

"I know where she is. I asked you if you're a friend of hers."

"Why you asking me, mister?"

"She might need a friend to do her a favor."

"She and me, we get along pretty good."

"Would you come down to Room One-O-nine?" She looked very skeptical. "What she wants to do and what I want are a couple of different things, mister. I do maid work, period. I don't hold it against her, but she ought to know by now if she wants a girl for anything else, she can go call that fat Annabelle or that crazy kid they got working in the kitchen."

"I got back to my room a couple of minutes ago, Lorette. Your friend Cathy tapped one of my bottles. She thought it was gin. It was sleeping medicine. She's down there pa.s.sed out. Now, if you don't give a d.a.m.n, say so."

Her eyes were round and wide. "Cold stone pa.s.sed out? You go on down, please, and I'll come right along quick."

Ten seconds after I was back in the room, she pushed the door open and stood on the threshold, staring in at Cathy.

"It's like you said?" she asked. "You didn't mess with her any kind of way, did you?"

"There's the bottle over there. Go take a slug and in a little while you can lie down right beside her."

She made up her mind and pulled the door almost closed as she came in. She dropped to her knees and laid her ear against Cathy's chest. Then she shook her and slapped her. Cathy's sleeping head lolled and Cathy made a little whine of irritation and complaint.

"Can you cover for her?" I asked.

She sat back on her heels and nibbled a thumb knuckle. "Best thing is get Jase to bring a laundry cart and he'p load her in and put a couple sheets over her and put her in an empty." She stared suspiciously up at me. "That's no kind of poison, is it? She'll come out of it okay?"

"In two to three hours, probably."

She stood up and stared at me, head tilted. "How come you don't just call the desk?"

"Would they fire her?"

"They sure to h.e.l.l would."

"Lorette, if I'd had that bottle locked up in my suitcase and she'd gone digging around in there and tapped it, then I might have called the desk. Maybe I would have called anyway if she'd been giving me sloppy service since I've been here. But she's kept this place bright as a but-ton, and I plain forgot that bottle and left it on the closet floor over there where any maid would find it. So I share the blame."

"And maybe you don't want to have to tell a lot of folks how come you keep your sleeping medicine in with the gin?"

"I think you're a nice bright girl and you can cover for her without any trouble at all."

"Because it's slack right now I can do hers and mine both, what rooms we got left. But one more thing. If you turned her in, could she rightly say that you've been messing with her some?"

"No. She couldn't say that."

"Then, I'll be back in just a little while."

It was five minutes before she came back. She held the door open for a tall young boy with enormous shoulders, who pushed a laundry hamper on wheels into the room. He parked it beside Cathy and picked her up easily and lowered her into it. Lorette covered her with a couple of rumpled sheets and said, "Now Annabelle will be waiting right there in Two eighty-eight, Jase. You just put Cathy on the bed there and let Annabelle tend to her, hear?"

"Yump," said Jase, and wheeled her out.

"Finish up fixing your bed for you, mister."

"Thanks."

As she was finis.h.i.+ng she giggled. She had a lot of lovely white teeth. She shook her head. "That ol' girl is sure going to wonder what in the world happened to her."

"Explain the situation, will you?"

"Surely. If you're not checking out, she'll be coming by to say thank you tomorrow, I expect." She paused at the door, fists in the pockets of her uniform skirt. "It's important Cathy shouldn't get fired, mister. She needs the job. She lives with her old mother, and that old woman is mean as a snake. All crippled up with arthritis. She about drove Cathy's man away, I guess. There's three little kids, and Cathy could manage all right on the job money, but she'll see a dress and keep thinking about it until she just has to have it, no matter what, and she'll put it on lay-away, and then she'll have to use the money for other things at home, and she'll be afraid she'll lose the dress and what she paid on it, and then, well, she'll take chances she wouldn't otherwise and do things she wouldn't otherwise. She's older than me but lots of ways she's like a kid. This place does a lot of commercial trade, and what she does, when you unlock a number and it's a single in there, he's maybe just waking up or he's getting dressed, she gives a big smile and says something like good morning, sir, sure sorry if I disturbed you. And he looks her over and says, Honey, you come on right in here, and, well, she does. Then it's ten dollars or twenty to keep from losing the dress, but she's going to get caught someday and lose this good job. The reason I'm telling you all this is on account of from what I said about her messing around, I didn't want you thinking she was nothing but a hustler. It's only sometimes with her, and even if I wouldn't go down that road, it doesn't mean she isn't no friend of mine. She's my friend. She used to let me hold her first baby. I was ten years old and she was fifteen. And... thanks for coming and telling one of us."

She left and I screwed the bottle cap tight and put the doctored-and watered-gin in my carry-on suitcase, wondering all the while if it wouldn't be a sounder idea to pour it out.

D. Wintin Hardahee was with a client. I left the motel number and room number. He called back ten minutes later, at eleven o'clock.

"I was wondering if maybe I could scrounge a little more information from you, Mr. Hardahee."

"I am very sorry, Mr. McGee, but my work load is very heavy." The soft voice had a flat and dead sound.

"Maybe we could have a chat after you get through work."

"I am not taking on any new clients at this time."

"Is something the matter? Is something wrong?"

"Sorry I can't be more cooperative. Good-bye, Mr. McGee." Click.

I paced around, cursing. This nice orderly prosperous community was getting on my nerves. A big ball of tangled string. But when you found a loose end and pulled, all you got was a batch of loose ends. It seemed like at least a month ago that I had thought to check out Helena's estate arrangements. I thought maybe Hardahee could work it through his New York cla.s.smate. But Hardahee wasn't going to work out anything for me. So what could turn him off so quickly and so completely? Lies? Fear?

I stretched out on the bed and let the confusing cauldron bubble away, giving me glimpses of Penny, Janice, Biddy, Maureen, Tom Pike, Rick, Stanger, Tom Pike, Helena, Hardahee, Nudenbarger, Tom Pike.

Pike was getting pretty d.a.m.ned ubiquitous. And little bits of conversation kept coming back. I heard parts of the night talk with Janice Holton and something bothered me and I went back over it and found what bothered me, then slowly sat up.

She had asked about my imaginary wife. "Do you ever run into her? Is she still in Lauderdale?"

Review. I had not said one d.a.m.ned word about Lauderdale. Holton had checked the registration. So he knew. But was there any reason for him to have said word one about it to his wife? "Look, darling, my girl friend wanted to stay in the motel room with some jerk from Lauderdale named McGee."

Not likely.

Backtrack. A little look of surprise at hearing my name. Surprise to find me with her husband.

Possibility: Friend of Biddy's. Had met her in supermarket or somewhere. Biddy spoke of an old friend named McGee from Lauderdale.

Or: In the process of checking me out Sat.u.r.day evening, and checking Holton out, Stanger made some mention of me to Janice Holton. "Do you know, or do you know if your husband knows, anybody named Travis McGee from Fort Lauderdale?"

Possible, but I didn't like the fit. They were like limericks that do not quite scan, that have one syllable too much or one missing. My brain was a pudding. I walked across to a shopping plaza, bought some swim pants in a chain store, came back and put them on and padded out to the big motel pool. There was a separate wading pool full of three- and four-year-olds, shrieking, choking, throwing rubber animals, and belting each other under the casually benign stare of four well-greased young mothers. So I dived and did some slow lengths of the main pool and then gradually let it out, reaching farther, changing the kick beat, stretching and punis.h.i.+ng the long muscles of arms, shoulders, back, thighs, and belly, sucking air and blowing out the little layers of sedentary stale-ness in the bottoms of my lungs. I held it just below that pace at which I begin to get too much side roll and begin to thrash and slap, and then brutalized myself by saying, Just one more. And one more. And one more. Finally I lumbered out, totally whipped, heart way up there close to a hundred and a half, lungs straining, arms and legs weak as canvas tubes full of old wet feathers. I dried my face on the bath towel I'd brought from the room and then stretched out on it to let the suns.h.i.+ne do the rest.

Meyer calls it my "instant I.Q." In a sense it is. You oxygenate the blood to the maximum and you stimulate the heart into pumping it around at a breakneck pace. That enriched blood goes churning through the brain at the same tune that it is nouris.h.i.+ng the overworked muscle tissues. Sometimes it even works.

But I put my fat, newly enriched, humming head to work on the Janice-Lauderdale problem, and its final report was, "d.a.m.ned if I know, fella."

So I went back to 109 and before I dressed, I tried the office of the fat little John Wayne, M.D., got hold of a cheery, cooperative lady who told me that Dr. Stewart Sherman's receptionist and bookkeeper was Miss Helen Boughmer, and she did not know if she was working or not, but I could reach her through the phone listed for Mrs. Robert M. Boughmer. She asked me to wait a moment and gave me the number to write down.

Mrs. Robert M. Boughmer was very firm about things. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't possibly call my daughter to the phone. She is not well today. She is in bed. Does she know you? What is this all about?"

"I'd like a chance to ask her some questions about an insurance matter, Mrs. Boughmer."

"I can definitely say that she is not interested in buying any insurance and neither am I. Good-day."

"Wait!" I missed her and had to call again. "Mrs. Boughmer, I am an insurance investigator. I am investigating a policy claim."

"But we haven't had any accidents with the car. Not for years."

"It's some information on a death claim."

"Oh?"

"On Doctor Sherman. Just a few routine questions, ma'am."