been a pleasure meeting you. I'll relay what you've told me to our client. But I still hope a mutually satisfactory solution to this impasse can be arranged."
"Sure it can," she said, "if he marries me."
"Uh-huh," I said. "May I come back and talk to you again if it proves necessary?"
"Of course," she said. Then: "You're nice," she added, and stretched up to kiss my cheek. "Thanks for the pizza."
She marched through the slit canvas curtain, providing me with a final glimpse of her thong bikini, also called a shoestring bikini in South Florida, and sometimes a flosser.
I drove back to Palm Beach in a reflective mood. It had not been a totally profitless trip, although CW might think so. But I had, at least to my own satisfaction, learned something about Shirley Feebling and could guess at what might be motivating her demands. There were three possibilities, none of which would bring a gleeful smile to the puss of our distraught client.
1. My discussion with Shirl had been the opening round of what would prove to be lengthy and difficult negotiations. In other words, the lady was hanging tough in order to up the ante.
2. She was shrewd enough to forgo an immediate cash settlement, no matter how generous, in hopes of marrying the Chinless Wonder and becoming the wife of a man who would inherit millions when his mommy passed to that bourn from which no traveler returns.
3. And this was the most disquieting: Shirley Feebling was totally sincere and honest. She really did love the simp, wanted to marry him, and was determined to become a loving helpmate. His present or potential wealth had no influence on her decision.
Very disturbing. I don't pretend to understand True Love. I don't know what it is or how it works. Oh, I know all about affection, attachment, admiration—stuff like that. But True Love stumps me. I am not only ignorant of its nature but suspicious of its effects because whenever I have observed it in others, it has always seemed to me infernally serious. And since my life has been sedulously devoted to triviality, I find the seriousness of True Love to be a fatal flaw.
Still, although I know no more about TL than I do about Babylonian cuneiform, I cannot ignore the testimony of poets and Tin Pan Alley tunesmiths. It is obvious that True Love does exist, and I reckoned Ms. Feebling might very well be infected with a particularly virulent strain. If so, it did not bode well for the Chinless Wonder.
Which led me to musing about his intended fiancée, Theodosia Johnson, and wondering if my own reactions to that stellar lady might be True Love or merely gonadal twinges. I just didn't know and decided that only another personal meeting with the radiant Theo might provide the answer.
I was then approaching South Palm Beach and on a sudden whim (the guiding principle in my life) resolved to stop at the Hawkin residence. You may ask, and justly so, what on earth I thought I was doing since I was not part of the official homicide investigation and my assistance had not been requested.
The answer to your question is simple: I am nosy. I admit it and don't give a tinker's damn—or dam, depending on your erudition—who knows it. Also, there were several puzzling aspects about the murder that piqued my curiosity. I could have asked Sgt. Al Rogoff, of course, but would he have told me? Fat chance.
Al is a closemouthed gent, even when he doesn't have to be. He and I worked several cases together in the past, to our mutual benefit, but he never tells me everything he knows any more than I Reveal All to him. I think that in addition to our friendship we keep the scimitar of competitiveness keenly honed, sensing that it contributes to our success.
The crime scene tape still surrounded the studio building, and there was a sole uniformed officer on guard. But the main house appeared to be open to all comers. I rang the chimes, expecting they would be answered by Mrs. Jane Folsby, the live-in servant I hoped to
"Sure it can," she said, "if he marries me."
"Uh-huh," I said. "May I come back and talk to you again if it proves necessary?"
"Of course," she said. Then: "You're nice," she added, and stretched up to kiss my cheek. "Thanks for the pizza."
She marched through the slit canvas curtain, providing me with a final glimpse of her thong bikini, also called a shoestring bikini in South Florida, and sometimes a flosser.
I drove back to Palm Beach in a reflective mood. It had not been a totally profitless trip, although CW might think so. But I had, at least to my own satisfaction, learned something about Shirley Feebling and could guess at what might be motivating her demands. There were three possibilities, none of which would bring a gleeful smile to the puss of our distraught client.
1. My discussion with Shirl had been the opening round of what would prove to be lengthy and difficult negotiations. In other words, the lady was hanging tough in order to up the ante.
2. She was shrewd enough to forgo an immediate cash settlement, no matter how generous, in hopes of marrying the Chinless Wonder and becoming the wife of a man who would inherit millions when his mommy passed to that bourn from which no traveler returns.
3. And this was the most disquieting: Shirley Feebling was totally sincere and honest. She really did love the simp, wanted to marry him, and was determined to become a loving helpmate. His present or potential wealth had no influence on her decision.
Very disturbing. I don't pretend to understand True Love. I don't know what it is or how it works. Oh, I know all about affection, attachment, admiration—stuff like that. But True Love stumps me. I am not only ignorant of its nature but suspicious of its effects because whenever I have observed it in others, it has always seemed to me infernally serious. And since my life has been sedulously devoted to triviality, I find the seriousness of True Love to be a fatal flaw.
Still, although I know no more about TL than I do about Babylonian cuneiform, I cannot ignore the testimony of poets and Tin Pan Alley tunesmiths. It is obvious that True Love does exist, and I reckoned Ms. Feebling might very well be infected with a particularly virulent strain. If so, it did not bode well for the Chinless Wonder.
Which led me to musing about his intended fiancée, Theodosia Johnson, and wondering if my own reactions to that stellar lady might be True Love or merely gonadal twinges. I just didn't know and decided that only another personal meeting with the radiant Theo might provide the answer.
I was then approaching South Palm Beach and on a sudden whim (the guiding principle in my life) resolved to stop at the Hawkin residence. You may ask, and justly so, what on earth I thought I was doing since I was not part of the official homicide investigation and my assistance had not been requested.
The answer to your question is simple: I am nosy. I admit it and don't give a tinker's damn—or dam, depending on your erudition—who knows it. Also, there were several puzzling aspects about the murder that piqued my curiosity. I could have asked Sgt. Al Rogoff, of course, but would he have told me? Fat chance.
Al is a closemouthed gent, even when he doesn't have to be. He and I worked several cases together in the past, to our mutual benefit, but he never tells me everything he knows any more than I Reveal All to him. I think that in addition to our friendship we keep the scimitar of competitiveness keenly honed, sensing that it contributes to our success.
The crime scene tape still surrounded the studio building, and there was a sole uniformed officer on guard. But the main house appeared to be open to all comers. I rang the chimes, expecting they would be answered by Mrs. Jane Folsby, the live-in servant I hoped to
Similar Books
