A Shock to the System - Stevenson Richard - Страница 2

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She raised one of her tumblers. "I like you, Don, you know that? You and I are on the same wavelength. Jay Tarbell knew what he was doing when he suggested I get in touch with you. Jay's the main reason I called you, of course. You come well recommended."

"I've never been personally associated with Attorney Tarbell. But I know him by reputation, and I know he knows mine."

She crushed her butt end in the overflowing ashtray and shot a final volley of smoke over my shoulder and into the next room. "Jay's just another lawyer. Let me tell you about Jay Tarbell. One time Lew ran into him out at the club and asked Jay what he knew about Randy Hogan, the boy Deedee was engaged to at the time. Jay knew next to nothing at all—just some stupid crap about the Hogans suing the dog groomer who snipped off their Lhasa apso's business by mistake. A week after their country-club encounter, Lew received in the mail a bill for one hundred and eighty-five dollars. That's lawyers for you. I'll probably have to

auction my grandmother's dentures to pay Jay for recommending you. So I hope you aren't going to let me down—or take advantage of me now that you know that I'm a helpless widow." She gave me a caricature of her idea of a helpless-widow look. It was hard not to glance around to make sure nobody I knew was witnessing this.

I said, "My fee is four hundred dollars a day, plus expenses. A retainer of twelve hundred dollars is customary. Unearned parts of the retainer are refundable. Sometimes I work cheap for the poor, and if you want me to have a look at your tax returns I might make an adjustment."

The helpless-widow look faded. "That's awfully stiff."

"You'll find it's average among private investigators you would consider hiring."

"Four hundred dollars used to buy people like you for a month."

"Not anymore."

"A hundred and fifty seems reasonable."

"Uh-huh."

She popped another cigarette out of a nearly empty pack on the table and used a butane torch to ignite it. The smoking section at Le Briquet was in a separate room from the nonsmokers and was about as freshly ventilated as a Russian airliner.

She said, "You know how to tighten the screws on an old widow."

"It's just business."

She looked for an instant as if she might spear me with a rejoinder, but then something in her slumped. She looked thoughtful for a long moment, before gathering herself and stating in a businesslike way: "The reason I want to hire you, Don— for your standard fee, even though it's goddamned highway robbery—is exactly what I told you on the phone yesterday. Paul's death on March seventeenth, two months ago yesterday, was ruled a suicide by the Albany Police Department and by the coroner. That's plain nuts. Paul got the blues once in a while, but he was never—never— so depressed that he would do away with

himself. That I can tell you with a hundred and fifty percent certainty. Anyhow, Paul and I did lunch at Shanghai Smorgasbord the week before he died, and everything was hunky-dory with him. Paul had been on Elavil for over a month when we had our lunch, and I can tell you without fear of contradiction that it had done wonders for him. He was more relaxed than I'd seen him in ages. He looked good and he sounded good. The only thing that seemed to be eating at him a little bit was, Larry's business was in trouble."

She gave me a significant look and at the same time sent her radar to a passing waiter, who spun in his tracks and asked if he might refresh her Dewar's and my Molson. I said I was ready for coffee; she just nodded.

"What kind of business is Larry in?" I asked. "Does he still have a mall gift shop?"

"That was Paul's," she said glumly. "Beautiful Thingies, out at Millpond. Larry's is out there too, Whisk 'n' Apron. But Larry borrowed heavily to buy his franchise, and his bank was threatening to call in his loan. Paul said Larry was six months behind with ConFed. Paul wasn't overly communicative when it came to Larry. He'd heard my feelings on that subject any number of times, and I suppose he didn't especially want to get World War III going. But I dug it out of him about Larry's financial problems, and it's just lucky I did. There's your motive, am I right?"

"It could be."

"The tragedy of it is, in spite of all the rocky times those two had—screaming and hair-pulling and moving in together and moving out again—Paul never took the time to have his will changed. And now Larry gets everything—Paul's stocks, bonds, cash. Even the business, and Beautiful Thingies is—it's a goddamned gold mine, is what it is."

"Are you contesting the will?"

This elicited an uninhibited raspberry. Three suits huddled at the next table glanced our way briefly, then resumed plundering the Treasury or mauling the Constitution. She said, "It's airtight, Jay says. Unless we can prove Paul was mentally incompetent

when the will was signed, or he was forced. Being dumb as bricks isn't enough. Larry gets it all. That little tramp must have been great in bed, is all I can say."

I said, "Did your late husband leave you his estate?"

"Yes, he did. Not that it's any business of yours."

"Did he leave it to you because you were great in bed?"

"Yes," she said, missing not more than half a beat. "I'm sure that was a big part of it." The waiter deposited her Scotch in front of her. "Thanks." She sampled it and found it up to par. "I successfully feigned interest in making love to my husband right up to the day he was too sick to want to do it anymore. I also loved my husband and made a home for him and raised his children. That's called a marriage—and is recognized as such by the State of New York and is honored throughout the land. That marriage is the very good reason that I am the beneficiary of Lew Haig's estate. What else would you like to know about me, Don?"

"I guess I know all I need to know about you for now, Phyllis. You're quite a remarkable piece of work."

"You bet I am."

"Tell me more about Paul's death. The papers, as I recall, said he died from a drug overdose."

"Elavil and Scotch," she said, raising her glass by way of partial illustration. "At least a thousand milligrams of Elavil—that's over a week's worth—and a fifth of Paul's beverage of choice. They found Paul in his apartment on the morning of Friday, March eighteenth. When Paul didn't show up to open the shop, some of the help went over to Whisk 'n' Apron and Larry went to Paul's apartment and found him, he said. I'm sure he knew right where to look."

"They weren't living together at the time?"

"Larry'd had his own place since the first of the year. He told Paul he needed his space, Paul said. I'm sure he was sneaking around. Paul lived on Willet Street. Larry has an apartment elsewhere in Albany. I really couldn't tell you where. I was never invited."

"Would you like to have been?"

"Don't make me laugh."

"Was it the amount of Elavil that ruled out an accidental overdose?"

"That's what the police said, and I'll give them credit for two watts of brainpower on that one."

"Was there a suicide note?"

The waiter brought my coffee. Mrs. Haig's Joe Camel was nearly spent and she used it to light a new one. "Oh, there was a 'note,' all right." She waggled her fingers dramatically to indicate quotation marks, ashes and sparks flying. "It was exactly the type of 'note' you'd expect." She gave me a look of bright-eyed disgust.

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