New, Improved Murder

9

Donna Harris was sitting in her car outside my apartment house when I got back.

I pulled in behind her, got out, and strolled up to her car as if I were about to issue a ticket.

For all that my head hurt, for all that I was still trying to figure out Carla Travers’s confusing story — and who, exactly, she had been talking to on the phone — I felt happier than I should have about Donna Harris being here.

In the daylight I saw that her redheaded beauty was more delicate than I’d first noticed — slight features and eyes that looked as if they expected pain at any moment.

She saw me touching the back of my head. “Boy, what happened?”

“Somebody hit me.”

“You’re kidding!” In her world people didn’t go around hitting people. I wanted to live in her world.

“Unfortunately not.”

“Who hit you? Boy, are you all right?”

“Boy,” I said, “I’m all right. And boy, I’m not going to tell you who hit me.”

“I guess I do kinda say boy a lot, don’t I?”

“Boy, do you.”

She smiled her lopsided smile. The warmth of it helped considerably.

“Maybe I’ve found out some things you should know about.”

“Like what?”

“Feel like having breakfast?”

“No, but some black coffee sounds great.”

“Get in.”

The hardwood floor of the Iron Skillet was dappled with sunlight, like a Rembrandt painting, as we found a booth.

Donna Harris ordered pancakes, eggs, and bacon. Her six feet showed not an ounce of fat. She was one of those, eat all she wanted and metabolize it off.

“I found out something about you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“You’re an actor.”

“Sort of.”

“No, a friend of mine who works in a talent agency downtown says he’s seen your stuff. Says you’re very good.”

“Tell him to send me some work.”

“You like it?”

“Yeah. Whenever I can get work.”

“Boy, that’s neat. Acting, I mean.”

“Boy, is it.”

She laughed. “I’m starting again, aren’t I?”

I smiled. “I should tell you something.”

“What?”

“I’ve had a tough couple of days and it’s nice to see you.”

“It’s nice to see you too. I thought about you a lot.”

“Probably because you didn’t have anything else to do.”

“You want a compliment, don’t you?”

“I could use one about now.”

She smiled. “People in hell want ice water, Dwyer.”

While the waitress brought out food I watched Donna Harris got ready to eat. She did everything except rub her hands together. She was very different from the nervous woman I’d first met the other night. I liked her self-confidence now.

She managed to put food in her mouth, chew it, and talk all at the same time, and still look fetching.

“I’ve really been checking into Elliot’s background,” she said.

“And?”

“And he doesn’t seem to have one.”

“I’m not tracking.”

“I keep asking people where he worked before and they don’t seem to know. Apparently he showed up in the city several years back, bought himself the mansion on the edge of the city, and proceeded to become a fixture of the ad world here.”

“Where did he work previously?”

“That’s just it. Nobody seems to know.”

I thought about that a minute. “What about the funeral home? What do they know about it?”

She snapped her fingers. “Boy, I should’ve thought about that.” She smiled at me. “You were a cop once, right?”

“Right.”

“No wonder.”

While she did unspeakable things to the rest of her food I went in the back and called the funeral home where I knew the body was being handled.

The man I spoke with had a very masculine, articulate voice and was pleasant in what seemed a genuine way. I explained that I was trying to find some things out about the dead man and wondered if he could help me.

“That’s the curious thing,” he said.

“What?”

“The other day I received a cashier’s check for five thousand dollars and instructions that I should arrange everything.”

“Nothing else in the note?”

“No.”

“Have any relatives contacted you?”

“None. I’ve asked everybody who visited the body. They’re all from local advertising agencies.”

“Do you happen to remember what bank the check was drawn on?”

“First Federal, I believe.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Of course.”

When I got back to the booth the big, beautiful, animal part of Donna Harris was wiping her face with the satisfied aplomb of a small child.

“Wow,” she said, “that was great.”

I told her what I’d found out and then said, “So how about you checking First Federal? Give them your journalist story.”

She eyed me levelly. “There was kind of a smile in your voice when you said ‘journalist.’”

“I’m glad you’re not paranoid.”

“You really think I can make it as a journalist?”

“I would think that anybody who could put food away the way you do is capable of anything.”

“Very funny.” Pause. “Do I eat like a pig, or what?”

She was getting self-conscious again, her self-confidence waning. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“The other day you said you weren’t going to work with me. How come you changed your mind?”

“Now you’re fishing for compliments.”

“No. I’m just curious. Really.”

“You want me to tell you that I found you fascinating and couldn’t get you out of my mind.”

“That would be nice, but that really isn’t what I’m after. I just want to know why you changed your mind.”

I smiled. “Because I like you. Because it’ll be a good excuse to see you again. Is that better?”

“Much better.” She sipped coffee. “Say, why don’t you go to the bank with me?”

“I’ve got to do something.”

“What?”

“Gee, I’m glad you’re not a busybody.”

“Sorry. That’s a tendency of mine. I tend to be curious about everything — and very jealous.”

“Fair warning, I guess, huh?”

“So what’re you going to do?”

“I have an audition.”

She started — surprised and apparently delighted. “Really? What’s the part?”

“An auto mechanic.”

“Boy, that sounds great.”

“It pays scale and it’ll be a good credit. But I probably won’t get it.”

“Why not?”

“I average about one part out of every eight or nine I go up for.”

“You’ll get it, Dwyer. I can feel it.”

“In your bones?”

“In my bones, in my stomach, everywhere.”

As a prognosticator, she left a bit to be desired.