Mildred Pierced (12 page)

I moved to the back of the house where the small yard was surrounded by bushes. I could see the neighbors’ homes on both sides. There hadn’t been any cars parked in the driveways or on the street in front of either of the houses.

I broke a small window in the kitchen as quietly as I could, reached in and undid the latch, pulled the window up, and climbed in. I was on the kitchen table slipping off a red-and-white checkered tablecloth. The cloth and I thumped to the floor.

Though I had known Shelly for more than five years, I had never been in the house before. Mildred didn’t approve of me and, to be fair, she was right not to. But then again, I didn’t approve of Mildred.

I got off the floor, put the cloth back on the table, and threw the larger pieces of window glass in the garbage can under the sink. They landed on some bunched-up and crumpled sheets of paper. I fished the paper out without cutting my fingers on the glass and unfolded them on the table.

There were three sheets.

The first one was addressed, “Dearest Mortimer.” That was all it said. I put it aside. The second sheet was addressed to the
Los Angeles Times
and listed four suggestions to the editor including moving the war news off the front page because it was depressing, eliminating the stupid sports news, stop attacking President Roosevelt, and refunding her subscription money because the newspaper failed to cover three events about which she had informed them. There was a number five on the page, but Mildred had, apparently, decided to scrap the letter before she finished it.

The third sheet was a list of things to do. Each item had a line through it indicating, I assumed, that the task had been done. The list read:

Call Ferris and Paine about slowing down divorce.

Move hairdresser up to Monday to be ready for funeral.

Change dinner date with Jeffrey to eight o’clock Tuesday instead of Thursday.

Call the Randolphs and tell them you’ve decided not to sell the piano.

Change meeting with Leland to seven.

That was it. The item that interested me most was the hairdresser. Whose funeral was she planning for? I doubted it was for her own. I also wondered why she wanted to slow down her divorce from Shelly.

I put the first two sheets back in the garbage and pocketed the list. That was when the music started.

“Somebody came and took her away,” came the male voice behind Tommy Dorsey’s orchestra.

The music was coming from the front of the house. I had lots of choices. I could dive through the window and probably put myself in traction for a few weeks. I could open the door and run, which might work, or I could do what I knew I was going to do.

I didn’t have my gun. I seldom carried it. It was usually locked in the glove compartment of my car. It wasn’t that I was unfamiliar with guns. I’d been a cop, an armed security guard, and I was a licensed private investigator. I was also a terrible shot and as much a danger to innocent bystanders and myself as I was to whomever I might be trying to shoot.

The hell with it. I went through the kitchen door, heading for the music. It got louder as I stepped into the dining room. There I saw a lightweight table of black-painted wood with thin metal legs and six chairs that matched the table. Next to it was a black sideboard with silver handles on the drawers with a painting of Mildred above it. At least I think it was supposed to be Mildred, an idealized Mildred, a Mildred as played by Binnie Barnes.

I went through the dining room and into the living room. It wasn’t large and was almost all white with lots of chrome. In here I found myself facing a man standing next to a Zenith phonograph. He was holding a small stack of records each in a brown paper sheath.

“Mildred loved these,” he said, glancing over at me.

I recognized him. He had been the one who looked like Warner Baxter, sitting by himself at Mildred’s funeral service. He was tall, wearing a definitely nonfunereal pair of dark slacks and a sporty lightweight dark green jacket with a white shirt and yellow tie.

“‘Baby Face,’” he said holding up the record. “Sammy Kaye.”

I took a few steps toward him. The closer I got, the older he looked. His black hair was definitely dyed, a good job, but Hollywood dyed. The tan looked real, but I wasn’t so sure about the perfect teeth smiling at me as he held up a record.

“‘The Wang Wang Blues.’ Paul Whiteman.”

“You want to dance?” I asked.

“With you? You’re not my type.” He grinned, shook his head, and held up another record. “‘South America, Take It Away.’ Xavier Cugat.”

“How about Mildred? She your type?” I asked.

“Mr.…?”

“Peters,” I said.

“Mr. Peters, Mildred was most definitely my type. It wasn’t just her charm, beauty, and brilliant wit that drew me to her. It was her generosity. I’ll miss her.”

“How did you get in?” I asked.

“I have a key.”

He put down the stack of records. Tommy Dorsey did a solo on his trombone. We both listened.

When it was finished, he lifted the arm of the phonograph, removed the record, and turned the machine off.

“I came for a few of my things I left here.” He straightened his tie and smoothed his jacket. “Including these records.”

He oozed false charm like a B-movie character.

“My name is Jeffrey Tremaine.” He held out his hand.

We shook. New friends. Maybe we’d go out and have a few drinks together, become buddies. He had a firm grip.

“Why did Mildred change your dinner date with her from Thursday to Tuesday?” I asked.

The grin widened. Definitely false teeth.

“You’re well informed,” he said.

“I found out about it in the garbage,” I explained.

“You’re the garbage man?” He looked at me from shoes to nose.

“I’m a friend of Sheldon Minck. I’m also a detective.”

“Like in the movies? Nick Charles? Philo Vance?” he said with some interest. “I’ve been in a few movies. Crowd scenes at parties, drink in my hand, standing near a piano where someone was playing Chopin or something, maybe pretending to chat with an actress in an evening gown.”

“You’re not an actor,” I said.

“Hell, no,” he answered, folding his hands. “Exactly what you see, a man into his fifth decade, working hard at being charming, reasonably good-looking. I cater to ladies who can afford my tastes. I know a great deal about music, theater, the movie business, style, gossip, and just enough about politics to fake my way through a conversation.”

“You and Mildred were close,” I concluded.

“When it was essential and as infrequently as I could finesse,” he said. “If I understand your innuendo.”

“I see,” I said.

“Do you? I’m a fading facade, Mr. Peters,” he said, moving to sit in what looked like a particularly uncomfortable white chair. He put one knee over the other and steepled his fingers. “I’ll be happy to answer your questions under one condition.”

“Condition.”

“Yes, when I’ve answered your questions, you allow me to gather my things and walk out the door. I’ll leave my key on the table near the door. I doubt if I’m any match for you physically, so I’ll simply do what I do best: be cooperative, charming, and sincere.”

“The dinner-date change,” I reminded him.

“Mildred said she had something to do on Thursday and would be busy for a while after that.”

“Busy with what?” I asked.

“She didn’t say.” Tremaine bounced his fingers together. “I didn’t ask. She did add that she was considering buying a new house, possibly in Beverly Hills, and wanted to discuss it.”

“Did you?”

“Discuss it? Yes,” he said. “Over cocktails at Chasen’s. Mildred was exuberant, bursting with self-approbation, confident that she was soon going to be in a position to purchase many things she wanted.”

“Like you?”

“Me?” He grinned. “She already had me. I come surprisingly cheaply, and my price has been going down each year. She did say something about adding to my wardrobe. May I gather my things and go now?”

“Mildred the only lady you’ve been keeping company with?”

“God, no. There are four others at the moment. One is the widow of a rather successful movie director who left her comfortable, but not wealthy enough for full-time companionship.”

“You know someone named Leland?” I asked.

“Probably,” he said.

“Friend of Mildred’s?”

“Leland? No, she never mentioned a Leland to me.”

“Give me your address and phone number and you can go. Take whatever is yours. Just show it to me before you go.”

He bounded out of the chair, dug into his jacket pocket, and came up with a card he handed to me. It read “Jeffrey Tremaine” in tastefully elegant embossed black script and listed his phone number and address.

While Tremaine scrambled for his possessions, I looked around the house and came to some conclusions. First, the police had not bothered to look around the place. They had Shelly and no reason to spend any more time on the case. Second, Mildred’s checkbook in the drawer of her dresser in her pink bedroom on the second floor told me that she had a little over five thousand dollars in the bank. Not bad, but not the stuff you buy houses in Beverly Hills with, unless she was planning to cash in some of the money she had inherited from her parents or was expecting some other sudden pile of cash. Mildred read movie-fan magazines. They were stacked on the table next to her bed. Mildred had gotten rid of all things Shelly. There wasn’t an item in the house that bore any resemblance to his name, face, or taste.

“I’m finished,” Tremaine called from below.

I went downstairs. He was standing at the door, his arms full.

“Mind opening the door for me?” he asked with a smile.

I looked through the collection in his arms. It included the stack of records, two small paintings of clowns, a photograph of himself on the deck of a boat wearing a captain’s hat, and a Whitman’s Sampler box. I took the box and opened it. One string of pearls, a woman’s watch, two rings, and a bracelet with glittering green stones.

“Gifts from me,” he said, his smile so broad and sincere now that I was sure he was working toward a massive headache.

“I thought she was the one who gave you gifts,” I said.

“Well …”

“Sorry,” I said, closing the box and taking it from him.

“It was worth a try, old man,” he said with a resigned smile. “I do think I have some payment coming for services rendered.”

“Pick one out,” I said.

He put down his plunder and selected the bracelet. He put it in his pocket, handed me the front-door key, picked up the bundle again, and said, “The door?”

I opened it and he left. Then I brought the candy box with the jewelry to Mildred’s bedroom and put it in the bottom drawer of her dresser.

The phone was ringing when I closed the drawer. I went to the table next to Mildred’s bed and picked it up.

“Peters,” came the voice of Lawrence Timerjack, “you’ve disobeyed a direct order to cease and desist.”

“I’m not a Pigeon in your army, Larry.”

“You are subject to martial law,” he said.

“Are you for real, Timerjack?” I asked. “I mean is this all an act, or are you really a nut? I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and call it an act, not a good one considering the small size of your army of Survivors, but an act. Prove me right. Say something that makes sense.”

“You have been warned,” he said.

I had to give him credit. Only a small quiver of anger came through with his words.

“You threatening me with more peach syrup?” I asked.

“We are talking blood and guts here,” he said. “We are talking life and death.”

“So you think I should stop trying to find out if someone besides Shelly killed Mildred? So the law can put Shelly away or kill him and you can collect?”

He hung up the phone. He couldn’t be far away since he knew I was in the house, but I didn’t know how far. I ran downstairs and headed for the back door. I opened it when I heard the front door fly open with a loud crack.

I closed the door behind me and headed for the bushes in front of me looking for a space, a hole, someplace to hide or get through. I found a narrow break between two mulberries and pushed my way through scratching my hands, almost catching a branch in my eye. When I was on the other side, in someone else’s yard, I knelt and looked back through the bushes at the back door of the Minck manor.

The two burly friends of Timerjack, Uncas and Chingachgook, stepped out and looked around. Behind them was Deerslayer Anthony. They looked in my direction and didn’t see me. They went back into the house.

I moved to the back door of the house behind me and knocked.

After a second knock, a woman opened the door. She was plump, maybe sixty, wearing an apron and a look of surprise.

“May I use your phone?” I asked. “There’s been an accident.”

She stepped aside and pointed a spatula at the wall behind her. The kitchen smelled like cookies. I nodded my thanks, went to the phone, and called the police.

“There’s a break-in at my neighbor’s house,” I said. “Two men, maybe more. I saw them kick the front door in. I think they had guns. Hurry. They’re still there.”

I gave them the address and hung up.

“Thanks,” I told the woman. “Is it all right if I go out your front door?”

She stood bewildered for an instant, spatula in hand.

“I just finished a batch of chocolate-chip cookies for the USO,” she said. “Take a few. You look like you could use them.”

There was a stack on the table. I picked up two and she pointed her trusty spatula toward the door near the phone.

“Sorry,” I said.

“For what?” she answered. “I sit on my behind half the day listening to soap operas and stand in here the other half making ton after ton of cookies. You’ve brought some life through my door. Take some cookies for your friends.”

She reached for a brown paper bag on a stack near the cookies, filled the bag, and handed it to me.

“Thanks,” I said. “Sorry.”

“I’ll accept the thanks, but not the sorry.”

I went through the door, sack of cookies in my hand, found the front door, and went out into the sunlight. I ate a cookie as I walked. I was in no big hurry. I wanted the police to come before I felt it would be safe to go back to my Crosley, which was parked only a few doors down from the Minck house.