Murder Makes a Comeback

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 1

New York, 1950:

The last few days of egg-frying heat had shown no signs of relief. The very air had a burnt scent, as if everything it seared was being overdone, consumed by that unceasing oven, August. The tabloids gloated with their pronouncements this could be the most sweltering New York summer in the last twenty-five years. Martin West, already burdened with a young man’s guilt of an unsuccessful life, even mused if his birth were somehow to be blamed for that last scorcher. On such days, it wasn’t easy to forget his comfortable adolescence, when his late upper middle-class parents had striven to raise him as a gentleman before their health and money declined.

A hint of deep peach-like tan glazed his handsome face as he ruffled fingers through his sandy hair, randomly flecked with gold mined from the city’s sidewalk sun. Bored, and doing his best to ignore his dripping forehead, he eased his tall, lanky frame onto his tenement’s cracked hot stone front steps and, by chance, his eyes fell upon the newspaper article, “Heiress Cancels Wedding.”

“New York's lovely Carolyn Cabot, heiress to the Winthrop Cabot millions of Chicago, has again broken off her engagement, this time to Philadelphia’s dashing Brent Lippincott, and the social chatter nowadays is…”

The mail came. Thank God, he thought, quickly bored by such drivel. But his pleasure with this distraction was short-lived, for with it came another rejection letter and his returned manuscript. He loved New York but, financially speaking, the affair was unconsummated. It was at that very moment he decided it was truly time for a change of scene; he’d try the West Coast. (“What did you expect,” he cracked later to a friend, “South Dakota?") Yes, California, land of orange juice and promises. (An allusion that pleased him enough to record in his writer’s journal.) He had no family ties, few belongings, and some cash from the odd (often blue-collar) jobs he took on, for they allowed him flexible leisure time. He saw himself as a novelist. No one else did.

He wondered if perhaps his easy-going nature had held him back in New York’s aggressive climate. He certainly was a far cry from his late father or, for that matter, even his late Aunt Juel’s husband, Howard Carter, whom he hadn’t seen since his aunt’s funeral in Wisconsin twenty years ago. She had been the last surviving sibling of either parent. Since then, his uncle, as he still thought of him, had moved on to California; they’d exchanged only Christmas cards and a few snapshots. With nothing to lose, Martin decided he’d call him anyway, just as soon as he arrived, not knowing another soul in the state.

*

California:Howard Carter, in shiny pants belted too high above his ample waist, his bulk softly slipping over the edges of the counter stool, sipped coffee from the scalding hot china cup and, as usual, winced. It barely mattered that “Ruby’s Coffee Cup” was conveniently at the end of his block; the taste was God-awful! In seventeen years in California, the only thing he found worse was when he tried to make his own. After a week of feeble attempts, he had retired the coffee pot to the top of his office closet, its attached lid slightly askew, as if it were smirking at him. In his opinion, he hadn’t had decent coffee since his wife, Juel, died.

Howard’s tastes were simple, always had been. He’d enjoyed being on the police force back in Wisconsin, but it provided little financial reward; in fact, it left him struggling to make ends meet. When he, mistakenly, sensed his sister Janet’s brother-in-law, Larry Meeker, might sell his private detective agency in California, he’d jumped at the chance. Unfortunately, Meeker had other ideas. And, when pressed, Larry had asked him for a ridiculous sum far beyond his means. That was seventeen years ago, after three lonely years as a widower.

He still missed Juel. Hell, in a way, he even missed Wisconsin! The folks back in Greenfork had been friendly, like him, even wrote occasionally, at least until the war. He’d often thought how difficult the war must have been for them, being mostly first or second generation Germans. Californians had been friendly, too, but he still found it hard to retain anything more than superficial friendships there, such as with Ruby, the blowsy redhead who owned the local coffee shop. They were over-the-counter friends.

Paying his check, he thought, if only business were better! More money could bring some peace of mind, and he might even hire a secretary, someone attractive who could type, organize files, take messages, that sort of thing. And make decent coffee.

He knew when he bought the agency not to expect excitement; most of the work was just providing security. Nevertheless, he’d been enthusiastic – anything to relieve him of memories, of his lonely life without Juel. Meeker must have known how he felt in those days. Why couldn’t he have been more sympathetic! Larry had been a big, healthy, strapping kind of guy, even so, he’d died young. Down in Mexico. Poor Larry; people said he died of a broken heart, after losing the woman he loved. Just went off to Mexico and died. Well, even Howard had to admit Larry never did seem to get over… what was her name? Anne. Even so, he had to admit Larry’s death was sure a break for him. Larry’s brother, Arnold, a timid second-rate accountant from Oregon, and eager to return home, had finalized the deal with Howard, this time with realistic terms he could afford. In fact, a bit of a bargain.

After he opened his office, Johnny Carlton arrived, a fellow others secretly called “Howard’s deputized leprechaun.” Too small to ever be part of a regular police force, the baby-faced Johnny was, nevertheless, powerfully built, his presence an endearing threat, like the menacing gaze of some mute garden dwarf molded from cast iron and whimsy.

“Good morning, Chief. All set for tonight?”

Howard tried to hide his grin about all that “Chief” stuff; clearly, the kid had seen too many movies. Tonight, though, work might be fun, too. A.J. Brockett, the publishing tycoon and former movie financier, along with his blonde and still-glamorous ex-movie star mistress, Robin Dumas, had hired Howard and his men as security for their lavish costume ball in celebration of A.J.’s seventy-seventh birthday. It would also mark Camelot’s official reopening since the war’s end.

“Remember, Johnny, no asking for autographs, no gawking, and no snickering! Just do your job. And you might as well try to stay off your feet until tonight.”

Though unsaid, Howard worried about that, too. Not vain enough to be troubled by his graying hair, he nevertheless had to admit that in the three years since his fiftieth birthday he’d packed on some extra weight. Camelot hadn’t entertained lavishly in quite some while; for recent, much smaller parties, Howard had sent along some young recruits, with Will Higgins supervising. But now Will had moved to Colorado to be closer to his grandkids, leaving Howard no choice but to attend, especially for something as important as tonight’s affair. Not that he minded much; secretly, he still harbored a fan’s crush on Robin Dumas and enjoyed her screen appearances from her first silent movie, which he’d seen as a child, to her not altogether successful comeback films. He was a sucker for glamour.*Martin dashed down the airport corridor and stumbled blindly into a tall, unsuspecting young lady, knocking the purse and ticket from her white-gloved hands.

“Oh, excuse me, miss – my fault!”

He quickly retrieved her purse and ticket, still not really looking at her, glimpsing in the process only her beige silk suit and a well-shaped pair of legs.

“If you’re looking for an argument, there isn’t one,” she said, now catching his eye, as she haughtily brushed back a long lock of honey-colored hair, yet still offering the trace of a teasing smile.

Despite her wide-brimmed hat and dark sunglasses, he sensed she was a bit young for his taste (Nineteen, twenty? He couldn’t really tell), but poised and seemingly mature. Aboard the battered-looking plane, already well-laden with grumbling passengers and frightened children, they sat next to each other. Then came a fast fadeout on the dregs of daylight, a humming noise, then a growl, propellers whirred, all a prelude to the shaking power of takeoff. They were soon lifted into the clouds, night, and, with it, illusion. Like cheap ornaments made lovely, below them bridge lights spanned the Hudson, transformed into glistening necklaces strung out over a velvety midnight blue. But he turned away from that beauty to the one beside him.

“Martin West,” he said, offering a hand, “truce?”

She laughed lightly, like a string of tinkling bells. “Truce.” She removed her dark glasses and slipped them into her purse.

He was startled by her eyes, a light silvery gray, tiny mirrors in which to catch yourself.“You haven’t told me your name, Miss…?”

“Oh, sorry, it’s, uh… Lawrence. Lynn Lawrence.”

“Nice name.” He tried to sound casual, concealing the building excitement he could hear in his breathing. “Any chance you’re going on to California, too?”

“Chicago,” she purred.

His first stop. And an overnight one.