Manslaughter (Stanley Hastings Mystery, #15) Read online

  “I’d like to see Jenny Balfour.”

  “She’s not talking with the press.”

  “I’m not a reporter. I’m the guy she slapped in the face.”

  “What?”

  “Not on a date, or anything. I’m a private eye, I have some information to share.”

  “Jenny isn’t here.”

  “Oh?”

  “What do you mean, ‘oh?’ You don’t like that answer? You want an explanation? What makes you think you got one coming?”

  “I don’t, of course,” I said. “No matter. If Jenny’s not here, I’ll talk to you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She started to close the door.

  I put my foot in it. A common move. One you read about in book after book after book. I tell you something. The guys who do it must have hard shoes. My soft leather jobbie crumpled like an accordion. The pain in my foot was excruciating.

  I flung myself against the door.

  Mrs. Balfour bounced back, tripped over a pair of boots in the foyer, and fell flat on her ass.

  I lurched forward on one foot, howling like a hound of Satan, and collapsed on the prostrate woman like some demented rapist.

  Scowling with rage, Mrs. Balfour pushed upward, managed to get her foot in my crotch, and kicked with all her might. Luckily, from that angle and purchase, all her might wasn’t much. Instead of pain, it was like being fondled by an aggressive foot fetishist. It didn’t feel bad.

  I discovered I was holding her left breast. I released it, rolled off her, and sat up. “Sorry,” I said. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.” I looked ruefully at mine, which still throbbed. “I got some stuff you need to know. And vice versa.”

  I helped her to her feet, making sure I wasn’t in a position where she could push me out the door.

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you,” she said defiantly.

  “In that case, your answer is ‘No comment.’ It’s too bad, but I’ll ask the question anyway.”

  “What question?”

  “The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Or it used to be. Now that’s just one step on the way to a million. On that Regis Philbin show.”

  “Damn it, will you please make sense?”

  “Fine. I’ll ask you one question, then you can throw me out.”

  “What’s the question?”

  “Was Grackle alive when you left his apartment?”

  Her face froze. I don’t think she breathed. Her heart might have stopped beating. Then she started moving again, as if a freeze-frame had been released. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I shook my head. “Nah. No good. If you did it without the dramatic pause, like you’d just been brained with a sledgehammer, you might get away with it. You probably can if you know it’s coming. Let’s try it again. Was Grackle alive when you left his apartment?”

  She pointed to the door. “Get out of here.”

  “No, no. Bad move. Let me explain why. Everything I’ve observed leads me to the conclusion you and your daughter have been somewhat less than communicative. If I can’t talk to you, I’ll have to talk to her. Would you like to know what I’m gonna say?”

  “Leave her alone.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I’m a witness in the case. At least, a potential witness. I’m doing everything in my power to get out of being a witness, but it still could happen. If it does, your daughter needs to know which way to jump. That’s gonna be hard, with you holding out on her.”

  “I’m not holding out on her.”

  “Well, you’re not speaking up, either. I don’t see you rushing to the police and taking the blame.”

  “What good would that do?”

  “I suppose it would depend on your story. Can you make a good case for wanting to kill the guy?”

  A trace of an ironic smile played around the corners of her mouth.

  I shook my head. “See, that’s the problem. There’s only two possibilities. Grackle was alive when you left. Or Grackle was dead when you left. If he was alive when you left, it puts your daughter right in the soup, because Daddy’s gonna say he was dead. That’s pretty ironic, isn’t it. Here she is, sandwiched between two parents, both of whose stories will fry her. That’s assuming the cops get a line on you.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Absolutely not. I’m here to help you. Only, I could do it better if I had the facts. What did Grackle have on you?”

  “What makes you think he had anything on me?”

  “If you were there for a social visit, that’s interesting too. How’d you know Grackle socially?”

  “Fuck you! You smug, condescending ...”

  “You flatter me. So why would you see a guy like Grackle? I assume you’re locally prominent. A community leader of some sort. Are you active in the PTA? No, Jenny’s too old for that. You running for city council?”

  She blinked.

  “Oh, no wonder you won’t come forward. The thing is, this probably kills your chances anyway, it being your daughter and all.”

  “Get out!”

  “You keep saying that. But you haven’t answered my question. Was Grackle alive when you left?”

  “You get the hell out of here.”

  “Or what? You can’t call the cops, can you? You gonna throw me out physically? I’d be interested to see that. Give me an idea of how well you’d fare against Grackle.”

  She glared at me in helpless frustration. Then, abrupty, her face seemed to dissolve. Before I knew it, the woman was weeping on my shoulder.

  I held her, tried to console her. Fat chance of that. The only thing I could think of to say was, “There, there.” Somewhat inadequate, under the circumstances. I said it anyway. Patted her on the shoulder. Felt like hell.

  The next thing I knew I was flying backward, arms and legs flapping in the breeze like a rag doll, and landing in a heap on the front stoop.

  Dazed and confused, I staggered to my feet, just in time for Mrs. Balfour to slam the door in my face.

  It occurred to me I don’t do well with women.

  24.

  I PARKED AROUND THE corner from the Balfour house and settled down to wait.

  I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance. The Balfour house was in the middle of the block. Jenny Balfour had to pass the east corner or the west corner. If she was coming from the Hutchinson Parkway, she’d naturally pass the east. That upped my chances to better than fifty-fifty.

  My notorious luck with women knocked ’em down again.

  But the fact I’d had such bad luck with the mother raised ’em up. After all, odds are averages. So the fact I’d just struck out surely increased the chances I’d score.

  Or did it?

  I seem to recall in the play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead them flipping coins that kept landing heads, and they talked about how the phenomenon might be a dramatic vindication of the theory the tosses were totally independent of each other, and no matter what previous tosses had occurred, each individual coin was as likely to come down on its tail as its head.

  I wondered if I was remembering it correctly.

  The reason for such idle speculation was that I was sitting in my car with nothing to do but idly speculate. Mrs. Balfour had hinted her daughter would be home soon. Since Mommy hadn’t invited me to stay and wait, I was doing the next best thing, attempting to head her daughter off at the pass.

  I hoped like hell some enterprising news crew wouldn’t get the same idea.

  So far, so good. At least so far as I knew. Of course, she might have driven home from the west, parked in the driveway, and been upstairs taking a shower by now. But what the hell, at least she hadn’t come from the east.

  Confession of incompetence number 364. It was long about then that it occurred to me I wasn’t going to see Jenny Balfour’s Nissan flash by the corner, because Jenny Balfour’s Nissan was parked in the driveway. So Jenny had to be out in the Jaguar or the station wagon. The Jaguar I
’d probably notice, but Papa was likely to be out in that. The station wagon was another matter. I wasn’t sure whether it was a Ford or a Chevy, assuming it was either. I wondered whether I could spot Jenny Balfour driving it. Assuming she was driving it. Assuming she wasn’t holed up with her lawyer, who was advising her in no uncertain terms to stay the hell away from the private eye who was fucking things up.

  Jenny showed up fifteen minutes later, tooling along in the station wagon as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

  I pulled out into the intersection, cut her off.

  She screeched to a stop, looking just as indignant as she had every right to be.

  I was out of my car before she had a chance to back up. I raised my voice to be heard through her rolled-up window. “The last time I stopped you, you slapped my face. That was before you got arrested for murder. I got some things you ought to hear. If you keep going, you won’t hear ’em, ’cause your mama don’t like me. She just threw me out on my ass. I’ll follow you home if I have to, or I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. Your call.”

  She thought that over. I could tell she didn’t like it. She jerked her thumb back in the direction she’d just come. I got in my car, hoped I wouldn’t have to chase her.

  I didn’t. She drove to a nearby diner and parked in the lot. It was fairly decent diner, not fancy, but clean. It was about half full. We slid into one of the booths.

  I could see people pointing and whispering. If Jenny noticed, she didn’t let on.

  She ordered coffee and dry toast. I ordered coffee and a corn muffin.

  “You want that grilled?” the waitress asked.

  “What the hell,” I told her.

  She slid coffees in front of us. I dumped milk in mine. Jenny took hers black.

  “All right,” she said. “What’s so all-fired important?”

  “I had a talk with your lawyer. And your father’s lawyer. You know, the Millsap twins. They agree it would be to the benefit of all concerned to keep me out of it.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Making sure you feel the same.”

  “You got a lot of nerve.”

  “Hey, none of this is my idea. Your father hires me to make contact in a bar. The contact turns out to be you. You wanna tell me how that makes sense?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. That guy you slapped was a cop. He’s a big boy, he can take it, but not when it’s connected to a murder.”

  The waitress was back with our order. I noticed my muffin had been fried in butter to a tasty crisp. I wondered what that would do for my cholesterol. I wondered what this case would do for my blood pressure. I wondered if I’d wind up taking more pills than MacAullif.

  “You were about to explain,” I prompted, munching on a piece of muffin. “Your father’s gonna meet someone who will recognize him from a flower. That someone is you. How the hell are you gonna pull that off? Granted, you look all grown up in your Barbie doll outfit; still, don’t you think Daddy might have caught on?”

  “I knew he was running a ringer.”

  “How?”

  “Well, I didn’t, really. But I knew he wouldn’t be there.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “He was taking Mom to dinner. Along with some friends. It was a long-standing engagement. No way he was gonna bail.”

  “So what were you doing in the bar?”

  “Grackle sent me.”

  “Now we’re getting someplace. What was Grackle after, and why were you working for him?”

  “What do you think Grackle was after? Money, of course.”

  “He didn’t ask for money.”

  “No, he never did. But somehow he always got it.”

  “Could you be a little less cryptic?”

  “Not really. There’s people trying to listen in.”

  There were indeed. Not everyone in the diner, but damn close.

  “Drink your coffee, let’s get out of here.”

  I paid the tab, left a tip, ushered her out the door.

  “My car or yours?” Jenny said gamely.

  I was beginning to like her. “Any place around here we could sit in one of them without attracting attention?”

  “There’s a mini-mall a few blocks up.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  I followed her to the mall, which consisted of an A&P, a Kmart, and a dozen small stores. We parked in the far corner of the lot.

  Jenny climbed into my car and shut the door. She turned in her seat and looked at me. “Okay,” she said. “Shoot.”

  Up close, Jenny had a small scar on her chin. A thin, diagonal line. It didn’t detract from her beauty, however. If anything, it made her seem human, real, desirable.

  “Actually,” I said, “you were explaining to me about Grackle.”

  “Yeah, I was, wasn’t I? I thought you started this off by saying you had something I should know.”

  “I do.”

  “So?”

  “Tell me about Grackle.”

  “Tell me what I should know.”

  “You should know enough to keep me out of this. You should know enough to keep the cop you slapped out of this.”

  “Why?”

  “Tell me about Grackle.”

  She looked at me as if she wasn’t used to not getting her own way. I figured that was probably true. Except maybe where Grackle was concerned.

  “Go on,” I said. “Bite the bullet. Let me make it easier for you. Did you tell this to your lawyer?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. If you had, you wouldn’t be having so much trouble telling me.”

  She bit her lip.

  “What did you tell your lawyer?”

  “I told him Grackle knew I worked as a stripper and was threatening to tell my folks.”

  “He buy that?”

  “Why shouldn’t he?”

  “You tell him you found Grackle alive or dead?”

  “Alive, of course.”

  “No of course about it. You could have walked in and found him dead. That would tie in with the fact you weren’t there for long.”

  “The police don’t know how long I was there.”

  “No, but they can estimate. The cop who ID’d your car didn’t have time to write the ticket before you came out. Also, if you were gonna be long, you wouldn’t have parked at the plug.”

  “Sure,” she said sarcastically. “I knew he was dead, so I knew I wouldn’t be long.”

  “Okay,” I conceded. “Faulty logic. Anyway, you found him alive?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I gave him the money.”

  “What money?”

  “The money from dancing.”

  My eyes widened. “You’re working as a stripper to pay off Grackle?”

  She looked at me despairingly. “Even my lawyer knows that.”

  “That’s what you told your lawyer?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So I guess he’s gotta believe what he hears. I’m having trouble. You’re working as a stripper to pay off Grackle. Grackle’s blackmailing you for working as a stripper.”

  She made a face. “That does sound bad.”

  “Your lawyer didn’t point that out?”

  “It seemed a little over his head. The guy’s pretty young.”

  “Why did you go to him?’

  She grimaced. “My father brought me to his father. The old man saw a conflict of interest, palmed me off on the son.”

  “Interesting. And why were you paying Grackle? Not the reason you told Millsap junior. But the real one. What’d the guy have on you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You were just paying him out of the goodness of your heart?”

  “No.”

  “What were you paying him for?”

  “For
my father.”

  As I grow older, the ability of my brain to take in information diminishes. Whether this is early Alzheimer’s, or just normal deterioration, I have no idea. All I know is I find myself groping for words or phrases, having more and more senior moments, and just generally failing to process the simplest of information.

  In this case, I think I could be forgiven. The facts in the case kept spiraling around and around and down and down in a whirlpool of Balfours, a genuine maelstrom that threatened to scuttle even the last vestiges of reason.

  “He was blackmailing you for something your father did?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Would that be killing a man in a bar?”

  “Exactly.”

  I sighed. “This gets worse. You’re paying blackmail to cover up something your father did. Your father doesn’t know you’re paying it. Then the blackmailer starts to put the bite on your father. You turn around and help him do it.”

  “I didn’t help him do it.”

  “Oh, no? You showed up in the bar with the envelope.”

  “So?”

  “So what were you going to say to your father?”

  “I told you. I wasn’t going to meet my father. I knew he’d run in a ringer.”

  I put up my hand. “Let’s not go ‘round again. What did Grackle think you were going to tell your father?”

  “To pay up.”

  “And why did Grackle think you would do that?”

  “Because I told him I would.”

  I sighed. “Jenny, help me out here. Could you be just a trifle more forthcoming? Explain to me what was happening with regard to your father and Mr. Grackle.”

  “Just what I said. Grackle was a blackmailer. He was putting the bite on me. He decided to put the bite on my father. He made a preliminary pass at him to scare him, then set up a meeting. I found out, I asked him to let me handle it. Told him I’d get the money.”

  “You were going to shake down your father?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So what were you going to do?”

  “Stall things along.”

  “How?”

  “I knew my father was running in a ringer. I didn’t want that to work.”