Read Online The Monet Murders by Terry Mort - Free Book Online Page A

contentment meant that I was being disloyal to Lily. But how can you be disloyal to someone else’s wife? No, that fresh morning in Malibu was a turning point, the end of something and maybe the beginning of something else. Whether that something else would involve Myrtle/Yvonne remained to be seen, but it was suddenly very clear that the time with Lily was well and truly over. And it was about time I found out about it.

    The studio sent a car for Myrtle around nine o’clock. I went for a swim and then got dressed and drove to the office. It was Della’s day off, so I left the door between the reception roomand my office open. I wasn’t expecting anyone, but strange things sometimes happened in this business.
    My office was nothing to brag about—an oak desk and a matching oak office chair that swiveled and rocked, if you wanted it to. There was a black telephone on the desk and nothing else. I kept a spare thirty-eight in the top right-hand drawer, along with the pens and pencils and paper clips. On the wall was a copy of a Winslow Homer seascape that I’d bought at a garage sale for fifty cents, and a calendar advertising Barbasol that they’d sent me for nothing. There were two wooden chairs facing the desk for clients, although usually they came one at a time, that being the nature of the business. The only window looked out onto Hollywood Boulevard. I spent a few minutes staring out at the traffic, thinking about last night and feeling good about it. I didn’t have any reason to be there, in the office I mean, but I didn’t have any reason to be anywhere else just then. And you never know when someone is going to walk in. Like now.
    My back was to the outer door and I did not hear it opening, so the first indication I had that there was a visitor was the smell of her perfume. It was an expensive smell. And she wore too much of it.
    I swiveled around and saw her standing in my doorway.
    â€œMr. Feldspar?” she asked.
    I hesitated a moment—I never could get used to that name. I got up then and held out my hand. She took it firmly. She was wearing gloves, expensive gloves.
    â€œYes. Please come in.”
    In Hollywood, there are three basic categories of women—the beautiful ones, the ones you don’t notice, and the ones who were somewherein between. This one fell somewhere in between. She was tall and slim and dressed in a gray tailored suit. She had long blond hair parted on the side and allowed to cascade carelessly to her shoulders in a manner that said she’d spent plenty at the hairdressers. Her face reminded me of Amelia Earhart—pleasant and attractive but not particularly beautiful, with just a suggestion of horsiness. She didn’t wear a hat, which is something I approved of—not wearing them, that is. Women’s hats just then must have been designed by men who hated women. She was somewhere around forty, I would guess. The sort of age when women hire private detectives.
    â€œWon’t you sit down?”
    She sat down.
    â€œMy name is Watson. Mrs. Emily Watson. You were recommended to me by Ethel Welkin.” Good old Ethel strikes again. “I gather you know her well.”
    â€œFairly well, yes.”
    Emily Watson stared at me for a few moments, waiting, I think, to see if I’d make some sort of smirking gesture to reveal just how well I did know Ethel. If I did, that would indicate I was basically untrustworthy. I knew that game. So I put on my choirboy expression and simply waited for her to tell me why she was here. I noticed that she had very pretty gray eyes, though there were some dark circles that could have meant anything from tearfulness to sleepless nights to vitamin deficiency. Finally she seemed satisfied that I was discreet enough.
    â€œI have a problem,” she said.
    I nodded reassuringly, not even tempted to make a wisecrack that the only people who came to this office were people with problems.