difference between a guy and a gal, just fine. Even if the guy’s wearing a dress and heels. Can’t fool me.”
My jaw dropped. “The detective was in drag?”
Sylvia made a tsking noise with her tongue. “Of course not. Where’d you get such a fool idea?”
“But you just said—”
“I know what I said, and I didn’t say anything about anyone in drag. Don’t put words in my mouth.”
Blake apparently had studied the water stain long enough. He walked over to the table, took the seat opposite Sylvia and asked, “Can you describe the man?”
“Of course. Huge hunk of a fellow. What in my day we referred to as built like a brick shithouse, you should pardon the expression. That’s why I suspected a singing telegram at first. I was looking forward to him stripping down to his skivvies and giving us a bit of bump and grind.”
She winked at Blake as she paused for breath. “Anyway, he reminded me a bit of Arnold what’s-his-face. The one who married that Kennedy girl. Only she wasn’t a Kennedy because her father was something else. He was in politics for a bit. Not the father. He’s dead. Arnold. Governor Terminator, they called him. Out in California. Except he’s not the governor anymore, and he got caught up in some sex scandal, and the marriage is kaput.” She waved her hand in annoyance. “You know who I mean. Only the detective didn’t speak with an accent. And his hair was shorter.”
“Do you remember his name?” I asked.
Sylvia thought for a moment. “Kroft? No, that wasn’t it.” She tapped her index finger against her chin and stared at the ceiling. “Craine? Kroll?”
“Craft?” asked Blake.
FIVE
“Craft.” Sylvia nodded. “Yes, Craft. Detective Craft. I remember thinking how suitable. You know, a crafty detective? Like Columbo. He acted clueless, but his wheels were always spinning.”
“Crafty, all right, but he’s no detective,” I said. “Columbo or otherwise.”
“Don’t be silly, dear. I may be old, but I’m not senile. And I’m not stupid.” She patted my hand in a way that made me wonder if she thought I might be one or the other. Or both. “I demanded to see his ID before I’d answer any questions. He showed me his badge.”
“Yes, well...” I wasn’t sure how to tell her she’d been duped. Like me.
Blake jumped in and explained the situation to Sylvia. When he was through, she shifted her gaze back and forth between us several times before finally saying, “Oh, dear. Looks like I’ve been had, doesn’t it?”
“We both were,” I said, this time patting her hand in reassurance. “What did he want to know?”
“Only one thing, really. What Sidney and I discussed.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I guess it doesn’t really matter that he wasn’t a real detective.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“I wasn’t any help to him.”
“How do you know that?” asked Blake.
Sylvia scowled. “My big date with that loser lasted all of five minutes.”
Loser? True, Sid wasn’t my idea of the perfect date—given his cigars and crude mannerisms, but he didn’t suffer from halitosis or body odor. He didn’t click his dentures or shoot spittle from his mouth when he spoke. His clothes weren’t rumpled or stained, and he didn’t wear a feed cap. Sylvia had not only given him her phone number, she’d accepted a date when he called her. As did most of the other women I’d introduced to Sid. I chalked it up to that old adage about there being someone for everyone. That and beggars can’t be choosers, given the male to female ratio of the over-sixty set.
“Did one of you become ill?”
Sylvia snorted. “Not me. And he seemed fine until he up and left without any explanation.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “The two of you hit it off when you first met. What happened?”
“I haven’t a clue. We were on our way to dinner. As we passed the solarium, I spotted Blanche and stopped to introduce her to Sidney. You
My jaw dropped. “The detective was in drag?”
Sylvia made a tsking noise with her tongue. “Of course not. Where’d you get such a fool idea?”
“But you just said—”
“I know what I said, and I didn’t say anything about anyone in drag. Don’t put words in my mouth.”
Blake apparently had studied the water stain long enough. He walked over to the table, took the seat opposite Sylvia and asked, “Can you describe the man?”
“Of course. Huge hunk of a fellow. What in my day we referred to as built like a brick shithouse, you should pardon the expression. That’s why I suspected a singing telegram at first. I was looking forward to him stripping down to his skivvies and giving us a bit of bump and grind.”
She winked at Blake as she paused for breath. “Anyway, he reminded me a bit of Arnold what’s-his-face. The one who married that Kennedy girl. Only she wasn’t a Kennedy because her father was something else. He was in politics for a bit. Not the father. He’s dead. Arnold. Governor Terminator, they called him. Out in California. Except he’s not the governor anymore, and he got caught up in some sex scandal, and the marriage is kaput.” She waved her hand in annoyance. “You know who I mean. Only the detective didn’t speak with an accent. And his hair was shorter.”
“Do you remember his name?” I asked.
Sylvia thought for a moment. “Kroft? No, that wasn’t it.” She tapped her index finger against her chin and stared at the ceiling. “Craine? Kroll?”
“Craft?” asked Blake.
FIVE
“Craft.” Sylvia nodded. “Yes, Craft. Detective Craft. I remember thinking how suitable. You know, a crafty detective? Like Columbo. He acted clueless, but his wheels were always spinning.”
“Crafty, all right, but he’s no detective,” I said. “Columbo or otherwise.”
“Don’t be silly, dear. I may be old, but I’m not senile. And I’m not stupid.” She patted my hand in a way that made me wonder if she thought I might be one or the other. Or both. “I demanded to see his ID before I’d answer any questions. He showed me his badge.”
“Yes, well...” I wasn’t sure how to tell her she’d been duped. Like me.
Blake jumped in and explained the situation to Sylvia. When he was through, she shifted her gaze back and forth between us several times before finally saying, “Oh, dear. Looks like I’ve been had, doesn’t it?”
“We both were,” I said, this time patting her hand in reassurance. “What did he want to know?”
“Only one thing, really. What Sidney and I discussed.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I guess it doesn’t really matter that he wasn’t a real detective.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“I wasn’t any help to him.”
“How do you know that?” asked Blake.
Sylvia scowled. “My big date with that loser lasted all of five minutes.”
Loser? True, Sid wasn’t my idea of the perfect date—given his cigars and crude mannerisms, but he didn’t suffer from halitosis or body odor. He didn’t click his dentures or shoot spittle from his mouth when he spoke. His clothes weren’t rumpled or stained, and he didn’t wear a feed cap. Sylvia had not only given him her phone number, she’d accepted a date when he called her. As did most of the other women I’d introduced to Sid. I chalked it up to that old adage about there being someone for everyone. That and beggars can’t be choosers, given the male to female ratio of the over-sixty set.
“Did one of you become ill?”
Sylvia snorted. “Not me. And he seemed fine until he up and left without any explanation.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “The two of you hit it off when you first met. What happened?”
“I haven’t a clue. We were on our way to dinner. As we passed the solarium, I spotted Blanche and stopped to introduce her to Sidney. You
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