Corpus Delectable

Two

There is always a way.

I picked up the phone book and opened it to the C section. “Clavery” wasn’t a common name. I hoped the Clavery throwing the party that had been Jean Putnam’s destination didn’t have an unlisted phone.

I started dialing.

The first few Claverys didn’t answer. Then a salty voice expressed an opinion of people who call a wrong number and wake a night-shift worker in the middle of his bedtime.

I got another Clavery on the line and repeated the question: “Has Jean Putnam got there yet?”

“Who?”

“Jean. She was on her way to your party.”

“Party? Ain’t no party...”

“Sorry,” I said. “I dialed the wrong number.”

The next-to-last Clavery phone rang three times before it was picked up. The aloof voice of a trained domestic answered. “The Van W. Clavery residence.”

Bursts of laughter, stereo jazz in the background. My hand tightened on the phone.

“Has Miss Jean Putnam arrived?” I asked.

“I haven’t seen her, sir. Who is calling? I’ll look among the guests if you wish.”

“No, don’t bother.”

“Is there a message?”

“No,” I said. “No message.”

I hung up, made a note of the address, and left the office.

Located in swank Palma Grande, the Clavery home was a modern architect’s dream in glittering glass and concrete. I turned off the wide boulevard and parked behind the string of cars in the driveway.

Walking toward the house, I heard Al Hirt spinning on a turntable and the sounds of bright, gay people beyond the house, on the patio side. I didn’t need to see the scene to know it. There’d be a pool out there, tables heavy with food and drink. People mingling or sitting at tables under big beach umbrellas. A few couples dancing. Bikinis and diaper-like trunks on those attracted to the pool. Sprinkled among the swim wear and pirate costumes would be a business suit or two worn by squares destined to leave early.

The party was one of those casual facets of Florida living that begins when somebody announces open house for one reason or another. Today the reason was the start of Gasparilla. Later the blast might splinter itself into scattered restaurants for dinner or descend en masse on a night club late tonight. It would finally peter out in exhaustion.

I made with the chimes button beside the bleached wood door. A trim maid of middle age responded to my summons. She didn’t place me as one of the clique. Behind her spectacles, her eyes were cool. “Yes?”

“I’m a friend of Miss Putnam’s,” I said.

“The gentleman who called?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe she’s arrived, sir.”

A crisp, female voice behind the maid said, “What is it, Zola?”

“A gentleman looking for Miss Putnam, Mrs. Clavery.” The maid moved aside as her employer came to the door.

Mrs. Clavery was a woman of cool, aloof, almost sleek beauty. She was thirty, or forty, or fifty. There was no way of knowing by looking at her. Her face and body had received endless and expensive care during all her years. She had the ageless perfection of a fine painting. Her hair was like polished ebony, and her eyes were so black they looked purple. She wore a polished-cotton print dress with an air of careless sophistication.

“I’m Mrs. Natalie Clavery,” she said. “What is this about Jean?”

She’d glanced me over as she spoke. Her eyes recoiled slightly. I didn’t mind. A slope-shouldered 190 on a six-foot frame, I have a face that usually brings a reaction. It gives women ideas, hot or cold. It inspires caution or complete trust in men. There seems to be no middle ground, but it’s my face, creased, swarthy, thick-skinned, with sleepy brown eyes under hooded lids, and I’m stuck with it.

“My name is Ed Rivers, Mrs. Clavery. I’d like to talk to you.”

“About Jean?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand... but can’t you make it some other time? We’re in the midst of a bit of entertaining.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to insist,” I said. I opened my wallet and showed her the photostat of my license.

She regarded it with some hesitancy but without a change of expression. Still looking at the photostat, she instructed the maid, “Tell Mr. Clavery to come to the study.”

Then she stepped aside, made a small motion with her graceful, long-fingered hand. “This way, Mr. Rivers.”

I entered a living room that was a sunken garden in which the tricky use of glass gave you the feeling of being outdoors. Following her, I noted the swing of her hips, the flash of her bare, firm calves. Off the top of my mind, I made a guess about her husband. He had himself one hell of a woman — or an icy queen with a firm grip on an invisible ring in his nose. Her decision as to a relationship with a man wouldn’t contain reservations. He would be all or nothing.

The study was more bleached wood, floor-length draperies, with pale-tan leather furnishings. She closed the door and leaned against it.

“I can’t possibly make a connection between Jean and a private detective, Mr. Rivers.”

“Have you known her long?”

“Since she became private and social secretary to Señora Isabella Sorolla y Batione.”

“The hefty Spanish monicker strikes a chord,” I said.

“The newspapers gave the señora considerable space.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to remember. She was an old Venezuelan doña who came to Tampa and settled a year or so ago, after Venezuelan terrorists planted a bomb in her husband’s office.”

“You are correct, Mr. Rivers.” Natalie Clavery moved to the desk and chose a cigarette from a beaten silver humidor. “The bomb killed both the husband and the daughter of Señora Isabella. The old lady never wanted to see her native country again.”

“And she got her wish,” I said. “Didn’t she die a few days ago here in Tampa?”

“Yes, of a kidney ailment compounded by a heart attack. But then, none of us lives forever. Señora Isabella had a full measure of years — more than eighty of them.”

“What else can you tell me about Jean Putnam?” I asked.

She speared me with an arched brow. “Why should I tell you anything?”

Before I had a chance to answer, the study door opened. The man who entered was lean, wiry, his movements indicative of a quick, nervous energy. His thin face had a harried look reflecting about forty-five years of anxious living. He had thin lips, a sharp nose, intense eyes, and sparse, faded brown hair. Skinny as he was, he somehow looked natural and slightly dangerous in his pirate’s costume.

“Van,” his wife said quietly, “this man’s credentials identify him as Ed Rivers, a private detective.”

He cut a glance at her. I sensed a quick understanding between them.

“I see,” he said. He extended his hand. “I’m Van Clavery, Mr. Rivers. What can we do for you?”

“He was asking about Jean Putnam,” Natalie Clavery said.

“What about her?” he asked.

“I’m afraid she’s in trouble.”

“Jean? Trouble?” he said, as if the two were totally inconsistent. “I’m sorry to hear it. What kind of trouble? How does it concern us?”

I let his anxious flow of words go unanswered. “Tell me something about her,” I suggested.

“A fine girl. A friend. She was employed by a business associate of mine.”

“You represent a Batione interest?” I asked.

Clavery nodded, a jerk of the head. “Tropical hardwood timber. I import it. Because of my business association, the old señora chose Tampa after her husband and daughter were killed by terrorists in Venezuela. Also, as you know, Ybor City, the Latin Quarter, with its Spanish-speaking population and Old World flavor, differentiates Tampa from all other American cities. The old lady felt more at home here than in any other place in the United States.”

“Were you instrumental in Jean’s going to work for Señora Isabella?”

“No,” he said. “Fred Eppling, the old lady’s attorney, suggested the arrangement. But we got to know Jean pretty well during her term of employment.”

“Before we continue this,” Natalie Clavery said, “I think you should tell us what kind of trouble Jean Putnam is in, Mr. Rivers.”

“She’s dead,” I told them. “Murdered.”

There was an absolutely empty second of time during which they did nothing but stare at me. Then Natalie Clavery went white. Her husband clutched the arms of a chair and lowered himself.

“Impossible,” he said. “Impossible!”

In a controlled voice, Natalie said, “When?”

“Early this afternoon. She was dressed for your party, intending to detour by my office on the way here.”

“How?”

“She was shot,” I said.

“Merciful God!” Clavery said. “Who would do that?”

“A man. We think he is a professional hoodlum. He hasn’t been identified as yet.”

Clavery’s hands were hard tentacles of bone on the arms of the chair. “It’s senseless! She’s the least likely candidate for murder I could name...”