1979 - You Must Be Kidding (12 page)

Lepski gave her his wolfish smile.

‘Okay, Mrs. Gregg. Thanks for your time,’ and he walked by Reynolds and back to his car.

He reported to Terrell.

‘Get Max to check out the men who collected the clothes,’ Terrell said. ‘You check on Craddock again. We don’t want a run-in with that old bitch.’

Lepski and Jacoby spent the rest of the day, checking.

Jacoby got nowhere with the two collectors. They spent their fives collecting throw-out clothes and they said they couldn’t remember anything about any particular article of clothing.

Lepski got nowhere with Craddock.

‘I assure you,’ Craddock said, ‘this particular jacket was not among the clothes I disposed of.’

Lepski believed him. He reported back to Terrell.

‘Okay, Tom, leave it for the moment,’ Terrell said.

‘Give the boys a hand, checking out these hippies.’

* * *

Lu Boone lay on his bed, sipping a cup of instant coffee.

He had slept late, having spent half the night on the beach with a slim, coloured girl whose technical sexual expertise had surprised him. Today was Thursday, he told himself.

Tomorrow, he would call at the office of the Paradise City Assurance Corporation, Secomb. He had little doubt that he would collect, in cash, ten thousand dollars. Wearing dirty jeans, naked to the waist, he scratched his ribs. What would he do with the money? This problem had been puzzling him. He could, of course, return to college and complete his law training, but that didn’t appeal to him: too much grind and too boring. Anyway, a nine-to-five just wasn’t on.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Scowling, he swung his legs off the bed, finished the coffee and crossed the room to open the door.

He was confronted by a tall, grey haired man who held a microphone in his hand.

‘Hey, Mr. Boone!’ the man said. ‘I’m Pete Hamilton: Paradise T.V. I’ve been talking to Chet Miscolo. He tells me you were around here at the time of the murder of Janie Bandler. You could have seen the killer. Is it not a fact that you were passing the murder scene within minutes of the actual murder?’

Standing in the doorway, the sun falling on him, Lu glared.

‘Piss off!’ he snarled and slammed the door in Hamilton’s face.

Behind Hamilton was a small truck which had brought him to the Hippy camp. With a wry smile, Hamilton returned to the truck and slid under the driving wheel.

‘Did you get that jerk?’ he asked his camera man, concealed in the back of the truck, shooting through a one way window.

‘You betcha,’ the camera man said.

A couple of hours later, Crispin Gregg turned on his T.V. set and listened to Pete Hamilton’s broadcast.

‘The police still have no clues leading to the arrest of this sex maniac,’ Hamilton said. ‘This morning, I learned that a young man, staying at the Paradise Hippy colony was at the murder scene at the time of the murder. His name is Lu Boone. I tried to talk to him.’ From Hamilton’s face on the screen, the picture dissolved to Boone’s cabin.

Lu stood in the doorway of the cabin. ‘Mr. Boone was uncooperative.’ Hamilton’s ‘voice went oh. ‘I could, of course, be wrong, but I think this young man knows more than he is prepared to admit, not only to me, but to the police.’

Crispin studied Lu as he stood in the doorway, then his eyes narrowed and his lips moved into a mirthless smile.

He decided he must do something about Lu Boone. He could be a danger, but even if he was not, he would make a very exciting portrait in oils.

* * *

Lepski regarded his paper-strewn desk. He reckoned he had another two hours’ work ahead of him. He was hungry.

He was getting irritated and frustrated. He would feel better after a good meal and a bath, he decided, and pushed back his chair.

‘I’m going home for a decent meal,’ he told Max Jacoby who was toiling at his desk. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Okay?’

Max shrugged.

‘It has to be, doesn’t it?’

In his usual showoff style, Lepski arrived home with screeching brakes and the smell of burning rubber. He always wanted to impress his neighbours, who at this time, would be tending their gardens. He was pleased to see them gaping at his arrival as he stormed into his house. He flung open the door and bawled for Carroll.

Carroll was preparing an elaborate dinner. She had been given a recipe: an affair of chicken breasts done in tarragon and whisky. To her dismay, she found she had no tarragon, but decided this really wasn’t important. She also found she had given away Lepski’s Cutty Sark whisky.

Well, she had mushrooms and a pot of cream. All good cooks improvised, her mother had often told her. So, okay, improvise!

Lepski burst into the kitchen and came to a skidding halt.

‘What’s to eat?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve only got a couple of hours before I get back to work.’

‘You’ll eat,’ Carroll said, more calmly than she felt.

Lepski always turned up at the wrong time. ‘Chicken breasts in a mushroom and cream sauce.’

‘Hey! Sounds terrific! Soon?’

‘Ten minutes. Have you found that sex fiend?’

Lepski blew out his cheeks.

‘Not yet.’ He peered at the chicken, sizzling in the pan. ‘Yum! Yum! Looks terrific!’

‘No clues?’ Carroll, who was determined that Lepski was going to be the future Chief of Police, believed all successful police work depended on clues.

‘Here and there,’ Lepski said. ‘Hurry that bird, honey. I’m starving!’

‘I have three very important clues for you,’ Carroll said, as she added the mushrooms to the pan.

Lepski reared back as if he had trodden on a viper.

‘Clues? Don’t tell me you’ve been visiting that whisky sodden old hag again?’

Carroll gave him a cold stare.

‘Mehitabel Bessinger is not a whisky sodden old hag! She is a brilliant, shrewd clairvoyant! Remember she gave you two vital clues to that killer last year, and you were stupid enough to ignore them! Remember?’

Lepski groaned, then dashed into the living room, jerked open the door of the liquor cabinet and found his, bottle of Cutty Sark missing. Muttering, he dragged his tie loose, crumpled it and flung it on the floor.

Carroll appeared in the doorway.

‘There are times, Lepski,’ she said coldly, ‘when I think you have been badly brought up.’

This was such an unexpected attack that Lepski gaped at her.

‘Stop acting like a spoilt child and listen to me,’ Carroll said.

‘My Cutty Sark! It’s gone!’

‘Never mind about that! Anyway, Lepski, you drink too much! Now, listen to me! Mehitabel has solved this sex maniac case. You want to solve it, don’t you? You want to become Chief of Police, don’t you?’

Lepski walked slowly to an armchair and sank into it.

He rested his head in his hands.

‘Yeah . . . yeah. So the old rum-dum has solved the case!’

‘You are not to call Mehitabel an old rum-dum. Now, listen. She looked into her crystal ball and she has given me three clues. She said first you must look for a blood red moon. Second, you must look for a black sky. Third, you must look for an orange beach. Then, and not before, you will find this maniac.’

Lepski lifted his head from his hands and gaped at his wife. ‘A blood red moon? A black sky? An orange beach?’

‘That’s what she said.’

Lepski released a whistle that could have stopped a train.

‘Did she give that out before or after she had emptied my bottle of Cutty Sark?’

‘Lepski! Pay attention! Mehitabel can be relied on! You now have three vital clues,’ Carroll said. ‘It’s up to your intelligence to use them.’

‘Yeah.’ Lepski sank back in his chair. ‘Sure. A blood red moon, huh? A black sky, huh? An orange beach, huh?’

He closed his eyes and made a noise like a bee trapped in a bottle. ‘That old hag certainly dishes it out, doesn’t she? I could do the same for a bottle of Cutty Sark.’ Then he stiffened and sniffed. ‘What’s burning?’

Carroll suppressed a scream and dashed into the kitchen.

Fearing the worst, Lepski moaned to himself. Then Carroll called, ‘Your dinner is ruined! It’s all your fault! You talk too much!’

Heavy footed, Lepski walked into the smoke-laden kitchen and stared at the burned mess in the pan.

‘No chicken in mushroom and cream sauce?’

‘After all the trouble I have taken!’ Carroll began opening a can of beans. ‘When will you learn to stop talking?’

‘Is that what we are going to eat?’ Lepski shouted, eyeing the can of beans. ‘How about that cold beef in the refrigerator? How about that?’

‘That’s for Sunday.’

‘Who the hell cares about Sunday? I’m starving!’

‘Don’t shout at me, Lepski.’ But she took the beef from the refrigerator. ‘Anyway, Lepski, you eat too much.’

‘Yeah. I’ve heard that before. So I eat too much. Who the hell cares?’

‘Remember the three clues I’ve given you,’ Carroll said as she began to cut up the meat. ‘I know they will solve the case.’

‘Sure . . . sure. Let’s eat for God’s sake!’

* * *

The time was 23.00.

Ken sat in a lounging chair, more than drunk. He had returned home after work, and was in such a state of panic, he couldn’t bring himself to cook a dinner. Any moment, he kept telling himself, there would be a ring at the bell, and Lepski would be there to quiz him about the missing button. He had taken a bottle of Scotch from the liquor cabinet, poured himself a big drink and had sat down to wait.

He would have to tell Lepski the whole sordid story. He was sure the story would leak. Then there was Boone. He was sure Boone would post the blackmailing letters. It was all very well for Karen to say she could handle her father, but he was sure Sternwood would get rid of him. Then there was Betty!

He took another drink.

His life had come to a standstill. It was in ruins!

Then he heard the doorbell ring.

Lepski!

He got unsteadily to his feet. The end of his road, he told himself.

He walked from the living room, into the lobby, and bracing himself, he opened the front door.

Karen said, ‘Let me in quick. No one has seen me,’ and she pushed by him as he hastily shut the front door.

He stared at her.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Man! Have you been drinking!’ Karen said, and hip-swished into the living room.

She was wearing a tight-fitting, emerald green frock.

Her breasts pointed at him as he stood in the doorway, bewildered and trying to focus.

‘What is it? Why are you here?’

‘Look.’ She held out her hand. In her palm was a golf ball button.

Ken peered.

‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’ she said, smiling at him.

‘I told you I would fix it.’

Ken came into the room. The sight of the button, lying on her palm, slightly sobered him.

‘Where did it come from?’

She laughed.

‘No problem. I went to Levine’s shop. They were busy. I cut the button off one of his jackets, then I walked out. They didn’t even notice me. No problem. They’ll think the button fell off. Pleased?’

Ken reached for the button. He suddenly felt ten years younger.

Her fingers closed over the button as she continued to smile at him.

‘Where’s your bedroom, Ken? Let’s celebrate,’ and with a quick movement, she was out of her dress, standing, naked before him. ‘A button for a screw,’ she said. ‘Fair enough?’

Ken looked at her.

Just for a brief moment he reminded himself this was Betty’s home as well as his. The bed was Betty’s as well as his. The Scotch destroyed these reminders. He saw only this beautiful, sensually built body.

Catching hold of her, he guided her along the corridor to the bedroom.

five

T
he sound of persistent ringing on his front door bell brought Ken abruptly awake. As he sat up, what felt like a hammer crashed inside his head. He groaned, clutching his head in his hands. He threw off the sheets as the ringing of the bell persisted, swung his feet onto the bedside mat, still holding his head, his eyes shut.

The bell continued to ring, driving hot wires through his head.

God! he thought, I must have been good and drunk last night! Who the hell is this? What’s the time?

He forced his eyes to open. Sunshine was streaming into the room. His eyes went to the bedside clock. 08.15!

As he staggered to his feet, his head expanded and contracted and again he released a groan.

Goddamn that bell!

He found he was naked. He reached for and put on his dressing gown.

‘What’s the excitement about?’ Karen asked from the bed.

He spun around and stared at her. She was sitting up, naked, and blinking in the sunshine.

A wave of horror ran through him. Last night came into focus. He now remembered she had given him the button and they had gone to bed together. He had been far too drunk to remember what happened, but he could guess.

What the hell was happening to him? To have taken this little bitch into Betty’s bed! The horror of doing such a thing sobered him.

‘Someone’s at the door,’ he said feverishly. ‘Get out of sight!’

‘Poor Kenny,’ Karen jeered as she slid out of bed. ‘Always in a panic.’

He went unsteadily down the corridor and jerked open the front door. Standing on the doorstep was Lepski, with Max Jacoby behind him.

Ken stared at them. The hammer inside his head increased its blows. He was suddenly wildly angry.

‘What the hell do you want?’ he shouted.

Lepski looked him over. Boy! he thought, has this creep had a night out!

‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Brandon,’ he said in his cold cop voice. ‘I want to talk more about those golf ball buttons.’

Ken fought down his fury. He had to be careful. In a milder voice, he said, ‘I was going to call you this morning. I’ve found the buttons. Look I’m late. I overslept. I have to get to work.’

Lepski squinted at him.

‘You found them?’

‘They were in my wife’s button box. I looked and found them.’

Lepski made a suggestive move forward.