The Beholder, a Maddie Richards Mystery (36 page)
Read The Beholder, a Maddie Richards Mystery Online
Authors: David Bishop
“Ha. Ha. Hell, my marriage was kaput by then anyway, only a matter of time.”
“So you shortened the time.”
“It was self-defense. Hey, you got a murder here. Shouldn’t you be doing something more important than critiquing my messed-up life?”
“You’re right. I’m here about the murdered man, not the murdered dog. You were telling me about you and Clarice and your three hours in paradise.”
“I can’t really tell you what we talked about. It was late. You know, you get sort of groggy, the mindless talk comes and the time goes.”
Again his silent finger preceded his question. “What about the key?”
“I don’t know why she said that.”
“That don’t answer my question, Matthew. Says you were her old man’s only friend in the building. She figured her husband might have given you a key for emergencies or whatever. That woulda been convenient for you when you wanted to visit with his wife.”
“Okay. Here it is direct. I do not and never did have a key to the condo of Garson and Clarice Talmadge. Is that plain enough, Sergeant Fidgery?”
“Don’t get hot, Matthew. You know how this works.”
“I wasn’t dodging your question. How do you size this up?”
The sergeant stepped closer. “The wife’s a pastry on legs, but her deck is missing a few cards. She plugs her old man, and then leaves the front door dead bolted from the inside.” Fidge gestured toward a .22 revolver on the bed. “Says that there’s her husband’s gun. It’s loaded with longs. Only one shot’s been fired. I expect ballistics will find the missing long is in the old guy’s brain. Says the red scarf draped over the gun handle is hers, so’s that pretty little pink pillow with the ugly little black hole. Her dog sleeps on it, or used to.”
“Why the pillow?” I asked, “a .22’s pretty quiet. An expert would know that.”
“She ain’t no expert.”
“Oh, come on, Fidge.” I shook my head. “Clarice isn’t the kind to kill a man unless it’s with loving.”
“And just what kind is she, Mr. Writer?”
“The divorcing kind. She’d move on and find a new rich guy. Think of it as legal prostitution with fewer customers and better working conditions, with a topnotch severance package thrown in.”
Fidge grinned. “Maybe you should write one of them columns for the lovelorn.”
I imitated his finger, using my own. “What’s the story on the cornflakes?” I asked.
“Says her husband was a very light sleeper. That he sprinkled the flakes on the floor so no one could sneak into his room. How’s that for nutso?”
Clarice’s voice shrilled from the living room. “I didn’t do it, Matt. Honest to God, I didn’t do it.” Her Chihuahua whimpered, perhaps in agreement.
I had never before heard the dog make a sound. Garson had refused to buy the condo unless his wife could keep her dog. She proved to the condo association that Asta had been trained to always stay quiet indoors and, after Garson paid a large nonrefundable deposit, Asta became the only pet in a building posted: no pets.
I looked at my old partner. “Just what points this at her?”
Fidge started with a facial expression that screamed I’ve already told you, then he summarized: “The deadbolt. No forced entry. Nothing’s missing. The neighbors have heard lots of screaming. The gun was in the house. The scarf and pillow are hers.”
“That won’t get you a conviction.”
“That’s just the part I’m telling ya. We got more and we’re still in the first inning.”
“What else do you have that ties her in?”
“I’m not paid to report to you, Matthew. But I’ll tell you this, when the wife used her scarf and her dog’s pillow she moved it up to premeditated.”
“Maybe Garson did himself in?” I said.
“Usually they leave a note, and suicides don’t worry about fingerprints and keeping their work quiet, not to mention the awkwardness of plugging themselves in the front of the skull.”
Fidge shrugged after discrediting suicide. I agreed with him; this wasn’t suicide. Still, I hadn’t seen Fidge shrug that way in years, but habits become habits by lasting over time. This Fidgery shrug meant,
open and shut
.
“I’m not going to tell you again, Matthew, get outta here. The medical examiner could be here any minute.”
“I’m going.” I used the back of my hand to pat the sergeant on the breast pocket of his dark-blue suit coat. “She can phone her attorney after you get her downtown, right?”
“Sure.”
“Who called this in?”
“Her.”
“What about the coffee?” I asked.
Fidge coughed into his fist then answered. “Says she dropped the cup when she saw the hole in her sugar daddy’s noggin.”
I left my ex partner in Garson’s bedroom and went to Clarice in the living room. “I’ll come see you once you’re permitted to have visitors.”
She shifted Asta from one arm to the other while blotting her eyes with the soft pads of her straightened fingers, the way women do to avoid smudging their eye makeup.
“Please take Asta,” she pleaded. “There’s no one else I can ask. I got her a continental clip three days ago. She won’t need another grooming for weeks. I’ll be home before that.”
I had once thought about getting a dog, but figured on one I could name Wolf or King. Then, after the incident with my father-in-law’s mad creature, I repressed the whole idea of a dog.
“Matthew, I need another minute in the victim’s room,” Fidge said, leaning out of the doorway of Garson’s bedroom. “When I come out, I want a decision on that dog. It’s you or the catcher.”
“What’ll I do with a little Chihuahua?” I asked looking at Clarice.
“She won’t be any trouble.” Clarice’s eyes went all funny. “Please, Matt.”
I had always envied the way Sam Spade could stand up to the femme fatales who tried to play him. I had also given that skill to my fictional detective, but no one had given it to me.
“All right,” I said, hoping I sounded less defeated than I felt. “Asta can stay with me.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“I’m sure of almost nothing. But, yes, Asta can stay with me.” I put my fingers against her lips and headed for her bedroom where I found no deck shoes with zigzag soles. I quickly looked in the bathroom, the kitchen, and the laundry room and found no zigzags there either. Fidge had likely already done this. He was a solid detective so he would have seen the shoe print on the deck and the partially open glass door in Garson’s bedroom.
Back in the living room, I asked, “When did Garson start with the cornflakes?”
“Tally went all crazy after that call. He started carrying his gun around in his waistband, sleeping with it on the night stand. He kept insisting I go get six boxes of cornflakes. We fought about that. We fought about everything, about nothing. Yesterday, I stopped at the post office to mail a few house bills and something Tally wanted mailed; on the way back I bought the damn cornflakes. Guess what? We still fought.” She leaned closer and whispered. “He scared me real bad. I wish I hadn’t—”
I grabbed her shoulders. “Save it for your attorney, you have no privilege with me.” But she kept talking anyway.
“Damn it, I didn’t shoot him. I was trying to say I wish I hadn’t gotten mad at him so much those last few days.” She stood clutching the dog, breathing slowly. Her eyes shut. Then she put down Asta and said, “Go with Uncle Matt.”
The hair ball leaped into my arms.
“She’ll sleep on the foot of your bed. You’ll need to get her a new pillow. Her pink one has a … hole in it. Take a few of her toys. She’ll be fine.”
Fidge again filled the bedroom doorway, “Just the mutt.”
“But Asta needs her toys. She—”
“Lady. Just the mutt or we call the pound. None of this is up for negotiation.”
I put my fingers under Clarice’s chin, raising her head. “Get your mind off that damn dog. You’re in a real mess. Do what Sergeant Fidgery tells you but don’t talk about this to anyone until you get an attorney, a criminal attorney, a good one.”
Fidge came out of the bedroom wearing a grin wider than his flat nose. “I hope you and Asta will live happily ever after.” His eyes sort of twinkled, which is hard to imagine on the hangdog face genetics had passed down to Fidge.
“Now,” he said, “for the last time, Matthew, get lost.”
I lowered the dog to stop it from licking me on the mouth and walked out with Asta scrambling up my front, watching Clarice over my shoulder.
Who Murdered Garson Talmadge, a Matt Kile Mystery
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David Bishop enjoyed a varied career as an entrepreneur during which he wrote many technical articles for financial and legal journals, as well as a nonfiction business book published in three languages. Eventually, he began using his abilities as an analyst to craft the twists and turns and salting of clues so essential to fine mystery writing. David has several mystery and thriller stories available for your pleasure reading. For more information on David and his other novels please visit his web site. He would appreciate hearing your thoughts on this or any of his novels.