Hugger Mugger (12 page)

I
T WAS A
month or so after I had failed Valerie Hatch so miserably. I was sitting in my office reading a book by Jonathan Lear about Freud and other things, when Dolly Hartman came into my office like an old sweet song and sat down in a client chair and crossed her spectacular legs.

“Do you remember me?” she said.

“Yes, I do. How are you, Ms. Hartman?”

“Please call me Dolly.”

She was wearing a print summer dress and white high heels and no stockings. Her legs were the regulation horse-country tan. She was iridescent with cool sexuality that made me want to run around the desk and ask to die in her arms.

“You're looking well,” I said. It was a weak substitute but it preserved my dignity.

“Thank you,” she said. “Is that a good book?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I don't understand it.”

“Oh, I bet you do.”

“Just the easy parts,” I said.

We smiled at each other.

“What brings you to Boston?” I said, listening to my voice, hoping it wasn't hoarse.

“I wanted to see you,” she said, and shifted a little in her chair and crossed her legs the other way. Which displayed a fair amount of thigh. I observed closely. You never knew when a clue might present itself.

She smiled. I cleared my throat.

“How are things in Lamarr?” I said.

Spenser, conversationalist par excellence.

“That's why I wanted to see you,” she said. “Things are hideous in Lamarr.”

I decompressed a little. She wasn't just there to flash her thighs at me. Not that I don't like thighs. Had that been her purpose, she'd have been welcome. But because she was there with a problem, I could start acting like it was a business call, which would dilute my impulse to bugle like a moose.

“Tell me about it,” I said.

“There's something very wrong at Three Fillies,” Dolly said.

“Like what?”

“Well, neither my son nor I have any access.”

“Access?”

“We're not allowed in,” she said. “Not the stables. Not the house. Nowhere.”

“What happens if you go and ask to be let in?” I said.

“The security guards prevent us.”

“At the house too?”

“Yes.”

“Security South?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Any explanation?”

“No. Simply that they have their orders.”

“Have you called Penny?”

“She won't take my calls.”

“Stonie? SueSue?”

“They don't answer or return my calls.”

“There any progress on Walter's murder?” I said.

“None.”

“Any more horses?”

“No.”

“You talk to Becker about this?”

“The sheriff?”

“Un-huh.”

“I can't discuss this sort of thing with some policeman.”

“Oh.”

“I wish to hire you,” she said.

“To do what?”

“To find out what happened to Walter Clive.”

“What can I do that the cops can't do?”

“You can report to me,” she said. “And maybe you won't pussyfoot around the Clive family quite as much as the local police.”

“That may be,” I said. “But if they don't want to talk to me, they don't have to.”

“They have shut themselves off, since Walter's death. They have shut me out. They have shut my son out.”

“Are you in Walter Clive's will?” I said.

She was silent for a time. I waited. She crossed her legs the other way. Which gave me something to do while I waited.

“Why do you ask?” she said.

“I'm a nosy guy,” I said.

She was silent again. I waited some more.

“I was supposed to be,” she said.

“And?”

“The attorneys tell me I'm not,” she said.

“How long were you with him?” I said.

“Eight years.”

“Did he say he'd take care of you?”

“Of course.”

“Do you feel there was chicanery?”

“God, don't you talk funny,” she said.

“It's not my fault,” I said. “I've been sleeping with a Harvard Ph.D.”

She smiled. Her teeth were perfectly even and absolutely white. The effect was dazzling, even though I suspected orthodontic intervention.

“I've done that,” she said.

“Hopefully not with the same one,” I said.

“Hopefully,” she said.

“Do you think somebody doctored the will to cut you out?” I said.

“I don't know what to think,” she said. “I don't mean to come off sounding greedy, but . . . I . . .”

She shifted a little in her chair and crossed her legs again. She seemed to sit up a little straighter.

“I am what would have been called, in more genteel times, a courtesan. I have been not only the sex partner
but the companion and support of several powerful men, of whom Walter Clive was the most recent.”

“Did any of the others stiff you?”

“None of the others have died,” she said. “But each made a financial settlement with me when our relationship ended. I know Walter would have done the same thing, if we had parted before his death. None of these arrangements were about love. But in each instance we liked each other, and we understood what we were doing.”

“Are you okay financially?”

“Yes. I am quite comfortable, and I shall almost certainly establish a, ah, liaison with another powerful and affluent man.”

“So hiring me is a thirst for justice,” I said.

“I want my son's inheritance.”

“You think Walter Clive should have left money to your son.”

“Our son,” Dolly said.

“Yours and Walter's?”

“Yes.”

“Does your son know this?” I said.

“Not yet.”

“Did Walter know this?”

“I told him. We agreed that Walter would undergo some DNA testing.”

“Did he?”

“I don't know.”

“He died without telling you.”

“Yes.”

“You and Walter have been together eight years,” I said. “Your son, Jason?”

“Yes.”

“Jason appears to be in his middle twenties,” I said.

She smiled again.

“The eight years is public and official,” she said. “Our liaison began a long time before that, while Walter was still married to the beatnik.”

“Sherry Lark?”

“I became pregnant with Jason about the same time she did with Stonie. I said nothing. I knew better than to upset the apple cart at that time. I ended the relationship with Walter, and went away and had Jason, and raised him. Later when the beatnik was gone, I came back into his life. I never explained Jason, and Walter never asked.”

“Did they ever divorce?”

“Walter and the beatnik?”

“Yes.”

“No, they didn't.”

“Why not?”

“I think each hated the other too much to give in,” Dolly said.

“Why didn't you tell Clive about Jason when you came back?”

“The separation was horrible. The beatnik may be primarily interested in flowers and peace, but she tried to gouge him for every penny. Had she learned of Jason, she would have succeeded.”

“And that would have been less for you,” I said.

“And Jason,” she said.

“What made you change your mind?” I said.

“Walter was revising his will. I wanted Jason to get
what was his. No one would have to know anything until Walter's death, and then Miss Hippie Dippie couldn't do anything about it.”

“And Walter wanted proof that Jason was actually his son,” I said. “Hence the DNA tests.”

“Yes.”

“Where was he tested?”

“I don't know.”

“Was Jason tested?”

“We donated some blood for the DNA match. I spoke to our doctor first. Larry Klein. He's a lovely man. Very cute. Jason just thought it was part of a routine physical.”

“Do you think the rest of the family knows anything?” I said.

“To my knowledge, you and I are the only ones who know about this, and of course Dr. Klein.”

“You know he went to Dr. Klein?”

“No. He said he had. And was waiting for the results.”

“You're sure Clive is Jason's father?” I said.

“I said I was a courtesan. I am not a whore.”

We sat for a while. I thought about the offer. The case had its own merits, and it was also a wedge back into the situation. It is very bad for business when someone kills your client. I might see Penny again, whom I liked. I would almost certainly get a further look at Dolly's knees, which I also liked.

“Georgia in August,” I said. “Hot dog!”

I
T WAS HOT
in Lamarr. The sky was cloudless and the sun hammered down through the thick air. I parked at the top of the long driveway. Everything was pretty much the same. The lawn was still smooth and green. The sprinklers still worked, separating small rainbows out of the hot sunlight. On the wide veranda in the shade, two guys in Security South uniforms stood looking at me. As I got out of my car one of them walked down the front steps and over to me. He was carrying a clipboard.

“Your name, sir?”

“Spenser,” I said. “Nice clipboard.”

“I don't see your name here, sir.”

“With an S-p-e-n
-s-
e-r,” I said. “Like the English poet.”

“I still don't see it, sir. Did you call ahead?”

“I certainly did.”

“And who'd you speak with?”

“Some guy said his name was Duane.”

“I can check with him, sir.”

“Sure,” I said.

He walked a few steps away, reached down and adjusted his radio, and spoke into a microphone clipped to his epaulet. Then he listened, readjusted his radio, and walked back to me.

“Duane says he informed you already that you're not welcome,” the security guy said. He was a little less respectful when he said it. The other security guy, still on the veranda, came a couple of steps closer, though still in the shade, and let his hand rest on his holstered weapon.

“I know,” I said. “But I'm sure he didn't mean it.”

“He meant it.”

“Does Penny know I'm here?”

“Miss Clive doesn't want to see you.”

“How disheartening,” I said. “Stonie? SueSue?”

“Nobody wants to see you, pal. Including me. I'm sick of talking to you.”

“I knew you were trouble,” I said, “the minute I saw your clipboard.”

“Beat it.”

He pointed a finger at my car. I nodded and got in and started up.

“There's more than one way to skin a cat,” I said.

Unfortunately I couldn't think what it was, so I rolled up my window, turned the a/c up, backed slowly down the long driveway to the street, and drove back into town to talk with Becker.

He was at his desk in the sheriff's substation in Lamarr, drinking Coca-Cola from one of those
twenty-ounce plastic bottles shaped like the original glass ones.

“You remember the original bottles,” I said when I sat down.

“Yep. Glass, six ounces.”

“And then Pepsi came along and doubled the amount for the same price.”

Becker grinned.

“Twice as much,” he said, “for a nickel too, Pepsi-Cola is the drink for you.”

“And nothing's been the same since,” I said.

Becker shrugged.

“Shit happens,” he said. “What are you doing back in town?”

“I have a client.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Who?”

“Dolly Hartman.”

“She want you to find out who killed Walter?”

“Yep.”

“Thinks we can't?”