Once a Mutt (Trace 5) by Warren Murphy Page A

had been under the tree.
    “What is it?”
    “Westport Windjammers,” she said. “Vodka and tequila and rum and whatever fruit juice you can find around the house.”
    “What kind did you find?” Trace asked.
    “Lime Kool-Aid was all I could find.”
    “Good. Just the way I like it.” He poured a glass, drank half of it, refilled his glass, put it in the lawn glass holder, marveled at its construction, the low cost of the item, imagined the profit he could make with a six-to-one markup over manufacturing cost, then sat on the towel where the woman was patting a place next to her.
    “Should I do business now?” Trace said.
    “If you must.”
    “Your husband’s not home, I take it?”
    “Does it matter to you?”
    “Not unless he’s bigger than me,” Trace said.
    “He’s not.”
    “Good. I’m from the Garrison Fidelity Insurance Company.”
    “Oh, God. You’re not going to try to sell me insurance, are you?”
    “Of course not, Mrs.—Mrs.—?”
    “Patrick. Mrs. Patrick. But you can call me Elvira.”
    “It’s a pretty name,” Trace said.
    “Thank you,” she said. “I feel like an Elvira today.”
    “I feel like an Elvira today too,” Trace said. “Anyway, I’m not selling insurance. I’m doing a survey.”
    “I thought they hired college kids to do that kind of stuff, you know, house to house, asking insipid questions.”
    “Don’t send a boy to do a man’s job,” Trace said.
    “I’ll remember you said that. What’s your name?”
    “Devlin Tracy. My friends call me Trace.”
    “And what do your enemies call you?” she asked.
    “I only have three. One of them calls me her ex-husband. The other two call me Daddy.”
    “You sound as if you’ve had a tough life,” she said. Her breasts were really wonderful, Trace decided as she snaked a long thin arm over to take her drink from its holder.
    “Not so tough. Anyway, about the insurance. Probably you can’t answer these questions. Maybe your husband might know more about it.”
    “My husband’s in New York and won’t be back until Friday night.”
    “How does he stand being away from you?”
    “He has a mistress. He stays with her Monday through Thursday. I get him Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.”
    “That doesn’t bother you?”
    “Only on Monday through Thursday. I hate to sleep alone.”
    “I mean, his having a mistress,” Trace said.
    “No, we can afford it and she’s a nice girl.”
    “You’ve met her?”
    “We have lunch together when I go to New York. Bart is working, so we have lunch. After all, we’ve got a lot in common.”
    “If that’s true, Bart’s the luckiest man in the world,” Trace said as he finished his drink and poured a refill. It was a very large pitcher.
    “It’s true enough. She’s very beautiful. Bart has a good eye. So what questions did you want to ask?”
    “I’m wondering about the life-insurance levels that you and your husband maintain,” Trace said, trying to sound very businesslike.
    “Does that mean how much insurance do we have?”
    “Right. Insurance.”
    “All right. Bart’s got a hundred-thousand-dollar policy for each of his first three wives as beneficiaries. That’s three hundred thousand dollars. And he’s got five hundred thousand dollars with me as beneficiary. So that’s eight hundred thousand dollars.”
    “What about you, Elvira?”
    “I don’t have any insurance.”
    “Shouldn’t you have?”
    “No. I can’t think of a reason why I should.”
    “Neither can I,” Trace said. “I think life insurance is a rip-off.”
    “Not all of it. If Bart dies, I’ll need it to maintain this house. To keep the pitcher full, so to speak.”
    “Good thinking. You’re a very bright woman.”
    “Bright and fortunate,” she said. “My cup runneth over.”
    “All of them,” Trace said, glancing down at her bosom. Then he glanced down the long flow of grass rolling away toward the road. He could see the Paddington gates and home across the