And 47 Miles of Rope (Trace 2) (12 page)

There was nothing to see in Jarvis’ room except neatly hung clothing and sparkling clean furniture.

“I cleaned it for you,” Felicia said brightly.

“I didn’t want you to clean it for me,” Trace said. “I wanted to root around in the dirt and grime myself. Rubbish can be very informative. Ask Henry Kissinger.”

“I’ve got four garbage pails outside the kitchen,” she said. “You can root around in there. Find out what we had for breakfast. I didn’t throw anything out. I just straightened things up in here to make it easier for you.”

“He didn’t have anything? No phone books? No notes? No papers?”

“No nothing,” the countess said. “I didn’t find anything either.”

“This whole trip out here was a waste,” Trace said. “I could’ve stayed home.”

“I resent being called a waste. If you had stayed home, could you grab my wrist and drag me kicking and screaming up off to my bedroom—it’s two doors over—and toss me on the bed and rip off my clothes and punish my body? Huh? Could you do that at home?”

“Felicia, someday I’m going to take you up on your offer and you’re going to be the most surprised person in town.”

“Uh huh,” she said. “You will. When you find out what you’ve been missing, you’ll mourn for time wasted, never to be found again.”

“Didn’t he even have a checkbook? Everybody’s got a checkbook,” Trace said.

“If he had one, I don’t know where he kept it. It wasn’t in here,” she said. “Come on, Trace. Let’s go over my room and trick.”

Trace looked at her. She was wearing shorts made from cut-off white jeans, and they showed off her long tan legs and a little north of that. A man’s shirt was tied around her waist, exposing her navel and her flat little belly. The shirt buttons were open, and as she moved, her breasts moved, sweetly, independently, bouncily.

He walked to where she stood in the doorway, put his arms around her, and kissed her hard. Her tongue slid into his mouth as easily as a family car rolling into the house garage.

“Keep a civil tongue in your head,” he said “Two doors over in what direction?”

“You serious?” she said

“I never joke about important things,” he said.

“Then let’s make this a very important thing,” she said as she led him into the hallway and toward her room.

While she slipped out of her clothes, Trace reached under his shirt and yanked the tape recorder arid the surgical tape from his waist and stuck the machine in his jacket pocket. He hung his tie over the door so that the microphone was aimed at Felicia’s bed.

She was beautiful, silhouetted against the dying light from outside, as she turned and walked toward him.

“Let me help you undress,” she said.

“Yes.”

They lay side by side in bed. Through the open window, Trace could hear the sounds of her house guests, talking, tinkling glasses, punctuated occasionally by the lunatic squawk of one of her parrots: “Polly want a hit, Polly want a hit.”

“Well?” she said.

“I like a woman who keeps her promises,” Trace said. “It was a very important thing.”

And it was a lie. The sex had been routine acrobatics, a highly polished practiced routine that had all the emotional significance of scratching one’s neck to get fid of an itch. The only thing it needed right now, to round it off, he thought, was for someone to jump into the room and hold up two signs: 9.9 for technical merit, 9.1 for artistic achievement.

“I knew I’d get you in this bed someday,” she said. “It’s just strange that it took a murder for it to happen.”

“Things are complicated sometimes,” Trace said meaninglessly, and waited to see if she were going to pump him.

She was.

She curled her head onto his shoulder and kissed his neck.

“Have you found out anything yet?” she asked softly.

“No. Nothing really. No leads, no trace of the jewels, nothing.”

“And that detective, Roberts? He’s got nothing either?”

“No, I don t think so.”

“It’s strange,” she said. “I would have thought someone would contact me by now.”

“Why you?” Trace asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. I just thought, I don’t know, maybe the thief, I don’t know.”

“But no one’s contacted you,” he said

“No. Except you.” She laughed softly in the darkened room. “I think we’ve just gotten into very close contact.”

“The closest,” he said, and wondered how long he would have to lie there to be considered civil, before he could get up and dress.

Felicia seemed content to stay in his arms. “Do you think you’ll catch Jarvis’ killer?” she asked.

“Probably,” he said. “I’m smarter than I look.”

“And the jewels?”

“They’re not really my concern,” Trace said. “If I had to guess, I’d say they’re long gone.”

“Do you think Spiro had anything to do with it?” she asked.

“No.”

“But who’d know where the safe was? Who’d know I had jewels?” she asked.

“You’d be surprised. All your friends. One piece of chitchat leads to another piece of chitchat. Everybody gossips, and before you know it, somebody you don’t even know knows everything about your house and its layout and your schedule.”

“I try to avoid that,” she said. “I stay off charity boards and I don’t go and join fund-raising organizations. I’ve been in this town a year and I don’t think I’ve gone to anything formal yet. I turn down all those invitations just because I don’t want a lot of strangers hanging around here, finding out things.”

“Well, somebody found out something,” Trace said.

He waited, holding her, for another ten minutes and then he rose and tripped over something in the dark.

“What the hell’s that?” he growled.

“Oh. My luggage. I haven’t unpacked yet. I’m hiring a maid. Throw me my clothes from the chair,” she said.

They dressed and went down to join Felicia’s guests, who were sitting around, under smoky oil lamps, near the pool.

Felicia went to fix Trace a drink and he sat on a chaise next to Baron Hubbaker, who was wearing a white polo shirt and white trousers.

“I take it you didn’t think much of my theory about the Rustinayles,” Trace said.

“Excuse me?”

“When Walter Marks called you today. After I told him that I thought Jarvis was a ritual murder.”

“Oh. Having a bit of fun tweaking his nose, weren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Trace said. “That nose was made for tweaking.”

“You had him believing it,” Hubbaker said.

“Why’d he call you?”

“Damned if I know,” the baron said. “I think maybe he’s a little crazy. I like to play detective as much as the next fellow, but Walter Marks is obsessive.”

Ferrara was sitting on the other corner of the pool. He roared, “Willie,” and Parmenter came to him from out of the house. “Let’s get out of here,” Ferrara said. “I don’t like the direction this neighborhood is taking.”

He glared pointedly toward Trace, who said, “Don’t be nasty. Life’s too short to hold grudges.”

“In your case, I hope that would be true,” Ferrara said as he walked toward the house.

“Not exactly a new warm friend, is he?” Hubbaker said.

“I wouldn’t call him if my car broke down late at night,” Trace said. “What do you think about Spiro?”

“He’s a terrible cook,” Hubbaker said. “He made a thing tonight with peppers and rice that should be used to patch stucco.”

“I meant involved in this case.”

“The jewels? Jarvis? I don’t know. I think he’s harmless. Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered if you had an opinion,” Trace said.

“None at all,” Hubbaker said.

Felicia joined them and handed Trace a tall vodka and tonic. He drank it quickly, then went into the kitchen to get a refill.

Spiro was doing dishes. The television set played softly in a corner of the room.

“Hello, Mr. Tracy.”

“How’s it going, Spiro?”

“Okay.”

“Anything strange happening to you lately?” Trace asked.

“No.” He shrugged. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Trace said. “I’ve heard a couple people drop your name in this investigation. I wondered if you had anything, like detectives trailing you or like that.”

Spiro shook his head. “Jesus Christ, I don’t think so. Nobody’s going to try to pin this on me, are they, Mr. Tracy?”

“You didn’t do it?”

“I swear to God. I only know what I told you.”

Then don’t worry about anything,” Trace said

“Easy for you to say.” Spiro said as he turned back to the dishes

Chico was already home when Trace got there. As he feared, she was in bed with a look in her eye that made come-hither sound wishy-washy.

“Climb in here and feel me up a little,” she said.

How do women get such insanely bad timing? he wondered. He had been pure for weeks and Chico had looked at him with not much more interest than if he had been an advertisement for lawn mowers. One night he goes out tipping on her, and she picks that night to be horny, and aggressive about it.

“Absolutely,” he said. “My idea exactly.”

“Don’t talk about it. Do it,” she said.

“I’m going to,” he said. “I’m going to pound your body flat. I’m going to make you sorry for all the times you’ve rejected me. You’re going to be nothing but a repository for my stored-up passion.”

“You got laid tonight, didn’t you?”

“You’re disgusting,” he said. “Honest, you are. I come home, exhausted from working, and you’re lying there with your filthy little Oriental-Sicilian mind filled with disgusting fantasies.”

“Who was it? I bet you hit that big-uddered cow.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a comment,” he said.

It was good that she picked the wrong woman. Now he could spar with her and let her get herself all worked up about his bagging National Anthem, and then he could tell her, with honesty and sincerity just oozing out of his every word, that, no, he had not slept with National Anthem and he was really tired of her sick suspicions. If he did it right, maybe he could even make her feel guilty. Timing was everything. The trick was not to deny it now, but first let her get it firmly implanted in her mind that National Anthem was the woman in the piece.

“Was she good? Was she as good as I am?”

“Nobody could be as good as you are,” he said. Very clever, he thought. Just the right kind of answer. An all-purpose nondenial.

“I thought she was only into donkeys,” Chico said.

“So I’m told,” he said blandly.

“Of course. Of course, you qualify. You’re more of a mule than a donkey, but I’m sure she couldn’t tell the difference.”

“I really would rather not discuss this with you,” he said righteously. “You’re getting yourself all worked up over nothing.”

“Nothing? You call that amazon, that bovine, a nothing? Where did you do it?”

“I don’t really know what you’re talking about. Honestly, I hate it when you get this way.”

“Does she do it in bed like, normal women? A motel room? Or did you have to rent a stable? Tell me, you Irish-Jewish half-breed bastard. Confess your sins.”

“I have nothing to confess. How come you’re home so early?”

“Don’t change the subject, you son of a bitch. I came home early because I got tired of all those insurance people. I wanted to spend part of an evening with you. I hungered—no, I yearned for your body. I wanted to make love to you. And what’s he do? He’s out porking some nitwit. I’m ashamed of you.”

“The day will come when you’ll apologize to me for this,” he said.

“I’ll die before I apologize. You are beneath contempt. A hundred generations of Japanese ancestors curse your name.”

“That may be true, but I’m nevertheless innocent of all charges.”

“I want you to come to bed and tell me all about it. I want to know how she did it. Describe it in great detail. Maybe I can learn something I can use on the job.”

“That is a low blow,” he said. “Totally uncalled for. I refuse to stand here and listen to you degrade yourself.”

He went out into the living room, very pleased with himself. She was convinced now that he had made love to National Anthem. Now, at the right moment, he could be very honest and very sincere and tell her the absolute, totally acquitting truth, he had not slept with National Anthem. He would make her believe him because truth and justice were on his side

“Did you tape it?” she called out from the bedroom. “I want to hear the tape. Does she go eeeeyou when you stick it in?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” he called back. “Please go to sleep. There’s nothing worse in the world than an accusing woman who has her mind made up in total disregard of the facts.”

“I insist that you play me the tape of her I absolutely insist.”

“It’s obvious that I’m never going to get any peace, isn’t it? You want to talk about this. Okay, we’ll discuss it when I come back in. Then we’ll talk about it as much as you want, but I’ve got things to do first.”

“I hope dying is one of them. Die, you bastard. Rust, then die. I hope she gave you donkey fever. Your ears are going to grow and then your balls will explode.”

“See how little you know. It’s a well-known fact that porn stars are the cleanest people in the world,” he said. He took the tape recording of Felicia from his recorder and hid it behind a book.

“A well-known fact,” she scoffed. “How come you’re the only person in the world who knows that well-known fact?”

“Just think about it. Who’s going to hire somebody for a pornographic epic if she’s going to give a dose to everybody?”

“Including the livestock,” Chico screamed.

“It’d ruin the industry. I tell you, cleanliness is their stock-in-trade. Of course, I don’t know this personally, since I do not associate with such types, but it has been told to me by people in a position to know.”

“You lie, you bastard.”

“Well discuss it when I come in there,” he said. “I have no desire to be accused by you long-distance, with you baying in full throat. I will not entertain another word you say. Meanwhile, consider this. I am clothed in rectitude.” He felt better having hidden the tape.

The telephone rang and Trace answered it before Chico could. It was his father.

“How’s it going, Sarge?”