street.
“Are those all your questions?” Elvira asked.
“That’s all I needed to know,” Trace said. “How about those people who live over there?” He pointed toward the Paddington house.
“What about them?”
“Do you think they’ll help me with my survey?”
“You tell me. What kind of answers did they give you when you were there before?”
“Oh, you saw me,” he said.
“I remembered the car. You don’t see many dark-blue cars anymore. What did they tell you?”
“Nothing, really. Mr. Paddington is dead and they have a million-dollar insurance policy and they’re trying to collect on it. I was just wondering what kind of people they are.”
“You’re not really doing a survey, are you?” Elvira asked.
“No,” Trace said, surprised at his own outburst of honesty. “I’m checking their insurance claim.”
“Are you a detective? God, are you going to rip my clothes off and shove a gat into my belly unless I come clean?”
“More like an investigator,” Trace said. “Hold the gat idea.” He sipped at his drink and saw she was smiling at him. “You know anything that might be helpful? About your neighbors?”
“I don’t know. Aren’t you private eyes supposed to pay your stoolies for important information?”
“It’s usually negotiable,” Trace said.
“Then negotiate.”
“How about dinner tonight?” Trace said.
“That’ll do for a start,” she said. “I’ve never seen Mrs. Paddington. I read about her in the newspapers a few weeks ago, how her husband died and she was having him declared dead. That’s all I know. The woman who works there is named Maggie Winters, I think. Did you meet her?”
“No,” Trace said.
“Oh. Well, she’s pretty if you like the blond peasant sort. The only other person I see there is the big gorilla. The one you were talking to earlier today.”
“You’ve been here all day?” Trace asked.
“All day, every day. At least during the summer. I see all and know all,” Elvira said.
“But you don’t know anything about the Paddingtons?”
“Nothing. And I know the gossip about everybody.”
“How do you do that if you’re always on the lawn?” Trace asked.
“Well, not literally always. I have to go to the hairdresser and the weekly facial and aerobics classes, so I get out a bit. But nobody knows anything about the Paddingtons.”
“I wish I could find somebody who did. You know what they do for a living?” Trace said.
“Something to do with dog shit, the newspaper said.”
“Not in so many words,” Trace said.
“Not exactly, but the meaning was clear. Anyway, you can tell me all about it at dinner.”
“Sounds good,” Trace said.
“And I’ll see if I can find out anything about the Paddingtons.”
“That sounds good too,” Trace said.
“Are you staying in town?”
“Ye Olde English Motel.”
“What a dump,” Elvira said. “What room?”
“Three-seventeen.”
“I’ll call you at seven-thirty tonight and pick you up,” she said.
“I could pick you up,” Trace said.
“No. Somebody might see us and besides…”
“Besides what?”
“I wouldn’t want anybody I know to see me in a dark-blue Ford.”
6
At least Trace approved of the caliber of women in Westport, he thought as he waited in Adam Shapp’s law office, pretending to read a magazine and watching the lawyer’s receptionist.
She was barely out of her teens and her skin seemed to sparkle. Probably in an effort to look more mature, her hair was pulled back tightly from her forehead and tied up in a bun and she wore large praying-mantis-like eyeglasses. But if the impression she wanted to give was one of all business, it hadn’t worked because she reminded Trace of one of those before-and-after scenes from a thirties’ movie where the librarian, prim and proper by day, rips off her glasses, lets down her hair, and at night stomps the stage at Minsky’s, bumping and grinding to the tune of “Let’s Do It in the
“Are those all your questions?” Elvira asked.
“That’s all I needed to know,” Trace said. “How about those people who live over there?” He pointed toward the Paddington house.
“What about them?”
“Do you think they’ll help me with my survey?”
“You tell me. What kind of answers did they give you when you were there before?”
“Oh, you saw me,” he said.
“I remembered the car. You don’t see many dark-blue cars anymore. What did they tell you?”
“Nothing, really. Mr. Paddington is dead and they have a million-dollar insurance policy and they’re trying to collect on it. I was just wondering what kind of people they are.”
“You’re not really doing a survey, are you?” Elvira asked.
“No,” Trace said, surprised at his own outburst of honesty. “I’m checking their insurance claim.”
“Are you a detective? God, are you going to rip my clothes off and shove a gat into my belly unless I come clean?”
“More like an investigator,” Trace said. “Hold the gat idea.” He sipped at his drink and saw she was smiling at him. “You know anything that might be helpful? About your neighbors?”
“I don’t know. Aren’t you private eyes supposed to pay your stoolies for important information?”
“It’s usually negotiable,” Trace said.
“Then negotiate.”
“How about dinner tonight?” Trace said.
“That’ll do for a start,” she said. “I’ve never seen Mrs. Paddington. I read about her in the newspapers a few weeks ago, how her husband died and she was having him declared dead. That’s all I know. The woman who works there is named Maggie Winters, I think. Did you meet her?”
“No,” Trace said.
“Oh. Well, she’s pretty if you like the blond peasant sort. The only other person I see there is the big gorilla. The one you were talking to earlier today.”
“You’ve been here all day?” Trace asked.
“All day, every day. At least during the summer. I see all and know all,” Elvira said.
“But you don’t know anything about the Paddingtons?”
“Nothing. And I know the gossip about everybody.”
“How do you do that if you’re always on the lawn?” Trace asked.
“Well, not literally always. I have to go to the hairdresser and the weekly facial and aerobics classes, so I get out a bit. But nobody knows anything about the Paddingtons.”
“I wish I could find somebody who did. You know what they do for a living?” Trace said.
“Something to do with dog shit, the newspaper said.”
“Not in so many words,” Trace said.
“Not exactly, but the meaning was clear. Anyway, you can tell me all about it at dinner.”
“Sounds good,” Trace said.
“And I’ll see if I can find out anything about the Paddingtons.”
“That sounds good too,” Trace said.
“Are you staying in town?”
“Ye Olde English Motel.”
“What a dump,” Elvira said. “What room?”
“Three-seventeen.”
“I’ll call you at seven-thirty tonight and pick you up,” she said.
“I could pick you up,” Trace said.
“No. Somebody might see us and besides…”
“Besides what?”
“I wouldn’t want anybody I know to see me in a dark-blue Ford.”
6
At least Trace approved of the caliber of women in Westport, he thought as he waited in Adam Shapp’s law office, pretending to read a magazine and watching the lawyer’s receptionist.
She was barely out of her teens and her skin seemed to sparkle. Probably in an effort to look more mature, her hair was pulled back tightly from her forehead and tied up in a bun and she wore large praying-mantis-like eyeglasses. But if the impression she wanted to give was one of all business, it hadn’t worked because she reminded Trace of one of those before-and-after scenes from a thirties’ movie where the librarian, prim and proper by day, rips off her glasses, lets down her hair, and at night stomps the stage at Minsky’s, bumping and grinding to the tune of “Let’s Do It in the
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